Peculiar Stories
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: "Every ymbryne commits herself to the creation and upkeep of a place like this." One-shots about Miss Peregrine and her kids, tagged to the movie. Fluffy new chapter with Miss P at her most motherly.
1. A Day in the Loop

This chapter is inspired by the old man in dark glasses (credited to as Uncle Oggie), who told Jake that Miss Peregrine's home had been bombed. Over 70 years later, how did he still remember the exact day it happened? And what made him describe Miss Peregrine and her children as "lovely"? Here's my take on an encounter he might've had with them in Miss P's loop.

My entry for the August Song Challenge at the Plight of the Little-Known Fandom forum.

* * *

 _"But where did they go after? The headmistress and the children?"  
"Not one survived, poor little buggers. And they were lovely, too."  
_

The park in Cairnholm was small and simple, like everything else in the village. The metal slide became too hot to touch on sunny days, and the swingset creaked as if it might break apart. But today, the park seemed quite an exciting place to Auggie, for today was the first time he'd been allowed to go there by himself. He'd pleaded and pleaded with Mum, and at last, she'd relented and said he might go to the park while she ran errands. Auggie had puffed up as proud as a peacock at that, but Tegan scoffed, "Big deal." Tegan was off larking with his friends on the docks over the harbor, watching the ferries sail in and out. He always acted so high-and-mighty just because he was twelve now.

Auggie stopped short when he saw the two little girls just inside the park entrance, playing on the grass. Cairnholm was so small that he knew practically every other child, but he didn't recognize these girls right away. They didn't live in the village or go to school. After a moment, Auggie realized that they were from the children's home near the edge of the island. He crept closer, curious. The children at the home were real-live war refugees and orphans from different parts of Europe – he'd heard grown-ups say so – and they didn't come into the village often. Seeing them was almost as exciting as going to the park by himself!

It would be something to tell Tegan that he had seen girls from the children's home... but wouldn't it be even _better_ to say that he'd _played_ with them? They were playing fly, a game of laying sticks on the ground, further and further apart, and jumping over them. Auggie was good at fly. He took a deep breath and boldly walked right over to them and asked to play.

They smiled and nodded, their curls bobbing. Their names were Claire and Bronwyn, they said, and they were both six.

"Oh, _I'm_ seven," Auggie said, bragging.

" _I_ can tell time," Claire bragged back, sticking out one arm. Fastened around her wrist was a little wristwatch.

Auggie tried not to act impressed, but he was. A younger girl who could tell time! He didn't know any children his age who knew what the big hand and the little hand were saying. "Can you really?" he asked, peering at the face of Claire's watch. He glanced at Bronwyn and saw that she wore a watch, too.

"Yes, Miss Peregrine taught us. She says knowing the time is _very_ important. She's coming to take us home at three o'clock, and you ask to play with us at two forty-one."

"But only when we play fly," Bronwyn put in. "If we play jacks or jump-rope, you just walk past us."

But Auggie didn't notice what Bronwyn said. He was still thinking about what Claire had said. _Miss Peregrine_ must be the headmistress of their children's home. Auggie had seen her in the village before, the strange lady with the long black fingernails, but like all the children in Cairnholm, he kept well away from her. Tegan said that she was a witch who cackled and flew about on a broomstick at night, and that was why she lived so far from the village. But lately, Auggie began to wonder if Tegan wasn't just trying to frighten him.

He scanned the benches under the trees where grown-ups sat, but Miss Peregrine wasn't there. If these girls were allowed to go to the park by themselves too, it would be even worse than their knowing how to tell time. "Where is she?" he asked.

Claire glanced up at the clouds. "Oh, she's about."

"She probably went to check on Fiona," Bronwyn said.

"Fiona's in the market, selling flowers," Claire told Auggie. She swung her arms back and forth as she talked, flouncing the skirt of her dress. "She can grow the prettiest flowers you ever saw, and sometimes Miss Peregrine lets her bring a bunch to the village and sell them. Horace says she would make more money selling vegetables, but Fiona says she likes selling flowers better. Sometimes we stay in the market with her and help."

But Auggie was more curious about Miss Peregrine than flowers. He wanted to tell them what Tegan had said about her being a witch, but he was afraid they might laugh at him. He didn't _really_ think that she could be a witch – after all, he was seven, and much too old to believe in silly things like witches – but there _was_ something very strange about the woman. It wasn't just that she smoked a pipe, which Auggie had never seen a woman do before. He thought back to the last time he had seen her in the village – the quick way she moved her head, the sharp look in her eyes.

"Miss Peregrine's sort of like a... a hawk, isn't she?" he blurted without meaning to.

It was a silly thing to say, but Bronwyn and Claire didn't laugh. They stared at each other, then at him, both blinking in surprise, as if he'd just guessed a secret.

"She's a falcon," Claire said, but Bronwyn shushed her.

"What?" Auggie asked.

"Nothing," Bronwyn answered, laying another stick down on the grass. "Come on, let's play fly," she said, and they did. Auggie was good at fly, but Bronwyn's legs were longer, and she won the first round.

Auggie didn't mind losing. He hoped that Tegan or someone else he knew would pass by the park and see him playing with these girls from the children's home. He'd wondered if perhaps they were strange too, somehow, like their Miss Peregrine, but as they played, they seemed like normal children to Auggie. Whenever Claire jumped, her curls bounced, and she was always smoothing them down and adjusting her headband with quick, fluttery little movements of her hands. But Bronwyn never bothered; her curls flew all about and flopped in her eyes.

They were playing their third round of fly when Auggie heard the sound of bird's wings, beating loudly close behind him. He turned and looked, but there was no bird nearby. When he turned back around, the woman from the children's home, Miss Peregrine, was walking across the grass towards them.

"Bronwyn, Claire," she called, "I hope you've been playing nicely with August."

Auggie's mouth fell open a bit. How could this woman know his name – his _full_ name? How had she just come out of nowhere? Perhaps she really _was_ a witch. He backed away, a bit frightened.

"We have, Miss P," Claire answered.

"Good girls. Tell him goodbye now, it's time for us to fetch Fiona and go home."

"Goodbye, Auggie," Bronwyn said politely, hurrying around their row of sticks. "Thank you for playing with us, it was jolly fun."

Miss Peregrine had reached them now, and as Claire and Bronwyn gathered to her, she bent down and brushed Bronwyn's curls out of her eyes. "You look flushed, Bronwyn. I hope you didn't play too hard."

"We didn't, Miss P," Claire answered, as they slipped their hands into one of each of hers.

Auggie knew then that no matter what Tegan said, no matter how strange she might seem, Miss Peregrine was no witch. Claire and Bronwyn loved her too much. He wasn't even frightened – only just a smidge nervous – when Miss Peregrine straightened up and looked right at _him_.

"August, it's nice to see you again," she said. Her eyes were very sharp, but he could see now that there was a kindess in them, too.

"Yes, ma'am," he managed to answer. _There!_ He had done it! He had actually spoken to the woman from the children's home. He was quite certain that no other child in the village had ever done that. Certainly _Tegan_ never had.

Claire turned and waved to him over her shoulder as they walked away. Just as they were leaving the park, another grown-up approached them. Auggie recongized her as Mrs. Gethin, who went to their church, and she held a bunch of purple flowers in her hand. He was still close enough to overhear their words.

"Are you the woman who runs the children's home?" Mrs. Gethin asked Miss Peregrine.

"I am."

"The girl selling flowers in the market said she belongs to you."

Miss Peregrine smiled. "She does."

"I haven't seen any hyacinth on the island since May. How on earth did you get these to grow in September?"

"Fiona grows all her flowers herself, actually. She's a very good gardener."

Mrs. Gethin looked rather skeptical, but she said only, "Yes, I suppose she must be." After Miss Peregrine and her children had left the park, she shook her head and said, "Hyacinth in September!" Then she noticed Auggie standing there. "That bunch seems a bit... peculiar, don't they?" she asked him off-handedly.

Mum said it was rude to contradict grown-ups, but it had to be rude to call people _peculiar_ behind their backs too, so Mrs. Gethin had done it first. Auggie raised his head and puffed out his chest. " _I_ like them," he said proudly.


	2. Mourning Abe

This chapter is my take on Miss Peregrine learning of Abe's death. I think maybe Horace's dreams the night before should've factored into this chapter, as that was probably why Miss Peregrine was looking for Jake on the ferry, but I couldn't find a smooth way to include them.

My entry for the August one-shot contest at Caesar's Palace forum.

* * *

 _"I'm so sorry for your loss, Jake."  
"So... you know?"  
"I know if Abe were alive, he would've told me you were coming."  
_

A searing pain pulsed through her as she returned home, but she was careful to betray nothing of it to her children. She kept her head high and her back straight as she calmly gathered her children in the conservatory, telling them that she had an announcement. They put down their games and crowded around her, their curious eyes shining in the sunlight that streamed through the wide windows.

"What is it, Miss P?" Hugh asked. "Did you see something outside the loop?"

"Children, you remember that Abe has a grandson named Jake. Well, he's come to visit us. He just arrived on the island."

It had been a long time since they had any visitors to their loop, and her children all burst into cheers and excited chatter. _A visitor! Abe's grandson! I wonder if he'll be like Abe? How long will he stay with us, Miss P? What's his peculiarity? Has he come here all the way from America?_

"We should all act very normal when he gets here," Millard convinced the others, "as if we get visitors every day."

But Emma, standing in the back of the group, was silent, her brow furrowed. She had put the pieces together, and for a second, she looked almost as pained as Miss Peregrine felt.

"W-wait a minute," she said, her shaky voice cutting through the others, "Abe's grandson is here... but Abe didn't come with him? Did he even tell you he was coming?"

Miss Peregrine met her eyes. "No," she said gently, "he didn't." She looked around at all of them and kept her voice steady as she went on, "It's been some time since I had a letter from Abe. You all know that he had grown very old. His grandson is your age now, Emma."

Her children were quiet now, their eyes wide and sad. "It really does happen if you don't live in a loop," Bronwyn whispered to Claire and the twins in an awed voice, as if she couldn't believe it herself. "You really do grow older and older until you die." Claire nodded solemnly, as if she understood, but of course she didn't. A child who'd been six-years-old for over half a century couldn't possibly understand death.

"But you don't think Abe..." Emma fumbled for words. "You don't _know_ that he..."

"No, I don't know for certain. But I think Abe has probably passed away, and that's why Jake has come here now."

There was silence again, and Miss Peregrine watched them closely, ready to comfort the first one of them who cried, but none of them did. Her children could all remember Abe, but it had been so long since his last letter, and even longer since his last visit, that he had to feel distant to them. His death didn't cut them as sharply as it did her, but that was as it should be. Miss Peregrine never wanted anything to trouble her children, not even Abe's death.

Olive, as usual, rallied to cheer up the others. "It'll be nice to meet Abe's grandson, though, won't it?" she asked, smiling and giving Emma's shoulder a quick squeeze. "May we go get him and show him to our loop, Miss P? Please? We'll be very careful."

She usually didn't let any of her children leave the loop without her, but she needed some time alone before the pain ripped her apart completely. "All right," she said, "but you must be very quick about it – no dilly-dallying. You know it's dangerous to spend too much time outside the loop."

Several of them hurried off to fetch Jake – Emma and Olive to make sure they all got back quickly, Bronwyn and Millard in case their peculiarities were needed. They were excited to have a new visitor, and only Emma was still thinking about Abe. Miss Peregrine could see it in her eyes. Abe and Emma had been sweethearts before he left their loop to go to war, determined to have revenge on the Nazis who'd killed his family and the Hollows who'd killed Victor.

She watched them from the front porch until they were out of sight, then went upstairs to her room. As soon as she shut the door behind her, she stopped trying to hold back her tears. She slid down the door to the carpet, sobbing quietly, one hand pressed over her mouth so that her children won't overhear. Her heart ached almost as much as it had when Victor had been killed.

She tried to tell herself that this was different, and that Abe had lived a long, full life. But it didn't feel like the wrinkled, white-haired old man who sent her letters from Florida had died. No, it felt like the frightened Polish boy she'd brought home from the refugee camp had died. Sent away to England to keep him safe from the Nazis with little more than the clothes on his back, he could barely speak English then, and _Peregrine_ was too hard for him to say, so he'd called her _Miss P_ instead, and that had started all her other children doing it.

Dozens of memories of Abe flew through her mind, but one stood out from the rest. Just after Victor was killed, she'd found Abe in Victor's room, staring at his still, lifeless body, repeating strange words over and over. _Baruch dayan ha'emet._ When she asked him what it meant, he broke down in tears.

"I... I can't remember," he got out through his sobs, and then Miss Peregrine pulled him into a hug and his voice was muffled against her shoulder. "It-it's not Polish, it's Hebrew. My _bubbe_ taught me to say it when somebody died, or w-when something bad happened, but I can't remember what it means."

"But you remember the words, Abe, and you said them," she had said softly, rubbing his back. "I think that's what matters."

" _Baruch dayan ha'emet_ ," she whispered now, for Abe's sake. She didn't know what it meant either, but there must have been some power in those old Hebrew words, for as soon as she said them, her heart felt a little less broken. She went to her desk and took out Abe's last letter, which had arrived several months ago. It was brief, but he'd said important things in it, almost as if he'd known that it would be the last letter he ever sent her.

 _Dear Miss P,_

 _It's too bad you're running a home for peculiar children, instead of a retirement home for elderly peculiars. I'm not allowed to drive anymore, and I can never remember what I went into the kitchen to get, but I still remember your loop perfectly. I miss it all so much these days –_ _the island, you, the other children, feeling safe._

 _The other children._ Miss Peregrine's eyes lingered on those words. Not _the children,_ but _the other children._ Even as a very old man, Abe had still thought of himself as one of her children, and of course, she'd still thought of him that way, too. That was why his death hurt so much.

 _I wish I could come for a visit, but I think I'd scare the other children. Sometimes I scare myself when I look in the mirror and see what an old man I am now._

 _You know Miss P, my memory's not so good anymore, but I can't remember that I ever did thank you for taking me in._

 _Love from your wayward son, Abe_

 _Wayward son_ were words from a song that existed in the world outside their loop. Abe liked it so much that he'd sent them a record of it years ago. When Miss Peregrine emerged from her room – after making quite sure that her eyes weren't red, her cheeks weren't puffy, and nothing about her looked at all out-of-place – she was surprised to hear the song playing downstairs. She found Fiona, Hugh, and Horace in the parlor, listening to the record. Fiona, sprawled out on the floor, held a little bouquet of white lilies in her hand and was running her fingers thoughtfully along the blossoms.

"Miss P," Hugh asked anxiously, "are _we_ ever going to get old, like Abe did?"

Miss Peregrine smiled. "No, you never will," she promised, and they looked relieved. She lit her pipe and joined Hugh and Horace on the sofa, and they sat in silence, listening to the song that Abe had loved.

 _Carry on, my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more._

It wasn't quite a funeral hymn, but Miss Peregrine smiled and felt sure that Abe would've approved.


	3. The Privilege of an Ymbryne

This chapter is my take on the movie's best, most intense scene: when Miss Peregrine lets Barron take her prisoner in exchange for sparing her kids. (You really see her badass side there.) I didn't follow the scene line-for-line, and I tried to add a few new elements by telling it through Miss Peregrine's perspective. It turned out more melodramatic than I'd intended.

My entry for the September Song Challenge at the Plight of the Little-Known Fandom forum.

* * *

 _"I give the orders in this house, Mr. Barron."_

Her blood ran cold when she opened her door and saw Barron standing there. Her heart raced, pounding in her chest as if it were trying to burst free, at the sight of his white eyes, his pointed fangs, his hand transformed into a long, smooth blade against Jake's throat. But she gathered all her willpower and forced herself to stay calm.

She knew that Barron had planned to see her fearful, catching her by surprise like this. Perhaps he'd even expected her to gasp or cry or beg, and perhaps some lesser ymbryne would have – but Barron had underestimated Alma Peregrine. She kept her head high, and when she pointed at him and ordered him to shush, he was so taken aback that he blinked and fell silent.

With Barron quiet, she took a deep breath and turned to face her children. They were right there, watching her and Barron, and the fear in their little faces made her heart break. Would this be the last time that she ever saw them?

But no, she mustn't let herself think about that. She must stay calm. _You can do this, Alma,_ she told herself, _you can do it for them_ – and she could. If she let her children take orders from Barron, if she let them see her acting weak or scared... they would never forget it even if they lived for a thousand years.

"Children, we're going to do what Mr. Barron asks," she told them, and though she kept her hands from shaking, her voice trembled. "He'd like me to assume bird form, preferably caged," she said, and she addressed her children, but she said this for Barron, to make him understand that she wouldn't resist him. She would become a bird and let him put her in a cage, take her to Blackpool, and experiment on her. The thought made her sick, but she would let him do whatever he wanted to her, as long as he didn't touch her children.

"And he'd like you to make your way into a lockable room such as the parlor," she went on, raising her voice so that Miss Avocet, safely hidden on the other side of the parlor door, could hear her and understand that Miss Peregrine was entrusting her children to her. They belonged together: Miss Avocet had just lost her own children, and Miss Peregrine's children were losing their ymbryne now. They would be safe with her. When the Hollow came, Jake would see it in time for Miss Avocet to kill it. When the Nazi bombs fell, Miss Avocet would reset their loop. Miss Peregrine would likely die in Barron's experiment, but if Barron took her life for theirs, she would not complain. She would count it as fair trade.

But as her children slowly filed past her into the parlor, looking up at her uncertainly, she couldn't meet their eyes. Olive was leading Claire, and Emma was holding hands with the twins, and that comforted Miss Peregrine. She knew that her older children would look after the little ones until they were used to their new ymbryne. Miss Avocet barely knew them, and even if Miss Peregrine had time to give her instructions – even if she had _years_ – she could never have told her enough about caring for them.

 _Claire and the twins need a story at bedtime._ Every night after the reset, Miss Peregrine sat on one of their beds and read to them while they snuggled against her on either side. _Peter Pan_ was their favorite, even though Captain Hook was scary, because Peter was like them: he never grew up.

 _Fiona needs to be_ _called_ _in early before meals._ Her little gardener could get dirtier than the rest of her children combined. She would spend all afternoon in her garden and come inside almost blackened with dirt. "Fiona, sometimes I think your peculiarity must be getting dirty. Come wash up before supper, please," Miss Peregrine would say, but her tone was kind. Tone made a world of difference to children, and she always watched hers when she spoke to them. She made sure that they could hear the love in her voice, even when she was reprimanding them. Would Miss Avocet know how to do that?

 _Bronwyn needs to be reminded to be gentle._ Although she didn't need reminders as often since she'd fractured Twin A's arm. They were playing tag, and she forgot her strength and tagged him too hard. Twin A cried from the pain, and Twin B cried because his brother was crying, and Bronwyn, poor girl, felt so horrible that she'd hidden under her bed and cried hardest of all. What a day that had been, trying to calm the three of them and figure out how to splint Twin A's arm without looking at him. But she hadn't complained. Caring for these children was her privilege.

It had been her privilege for such a long time, which made it even harder to have end it like this. She pictured Miss Avocet reading a bedtime story to Claire and the twins, and her heart suddenly burned with jealousy to imagine another woman, even another ymbryne, taking care of her children. They belonged to _her_. _She_ was the one who made sure that Hugh didn't let his bees out during meals, and Millard didn't sneak about naked, and they all did their chores on time. _She_ had thought up Emma's lead shoes to keep her from floating away, and Olive's leather gloves to keep her from setting everything on fire, and the twins' costumes to keep them from turning everyone into stone. She knew their favorite foods, knew how to settle their arguments, knew who needed space when they were angry and who needed a hug when they were anxious. She had tended to their every need for nearly eighty years. How could Miss Avocet ever do it as well?

She had vowed to stay strong, to not let her children see her acting weak or scared, but then, just before Emma went into the parlor with the twins, she stopped and hugged her. Miss Peregrine hugged her back, of course, and she felt the twins hugging her around her waist, and their arms around her made her strong resolve crumble. Tears streamed from her eyes, but still she smiled and told herself that no matter what happened next, she would always treasure this moment. She tried to memorize how Emma's hair felt against her cheek, how twins' arms were too short to wrap fully around her.

Miss Peregrine had never been very affectionate with her children. She'd never even said _I love you_ to them, but she didn't regret that now, for she knew that they'd heard it. _I love you_ was there in the tick of her pocketwatch, the smell of her pipe, the bend of her hair. It was there now in her hands, gently holding Emma's face, cupping the back of Twin B's head as they went past her into the parlor.

Emma and the twins were the last ones. Now, much too soon, her children were all in the parlor, huddled together, close to tears themselves, and there was nothing left for Miss Peregrine to do but say goodbye.

Her children didn't know that the tears on her face weren't for them, but for herself. She knew full well how much they adored her – the little ones practically thought she'd hung the moon in the sky – and she wept to imagine that now some other ymbryne would care for them and eventually replace her in their eyes. Pity was new to her; she'd never had time to pity herself before, with eleven children to look after, but she could allow herself this one selfish act before the end.

She gripped the parlor doors firmly with both hands and gave her children her most reassuring smile – as if everything were all right, as if there were no tears on her cheeks, as if Barron wasn't waiting there to take her away. She wanted to be smiling the last time that her children saw her.

"It's been my privilege," she said bravely, "to care for you all. Goodbye, my children."

The last thing that her eyes settled on, before she closed and locked the doors, was little Claire, clinging to Olive and making the face that meant she was about to cry.

This time, when Claire cried, for the first time in nearly eighty years, Miss Peregrine would not be there to comfort her.

She had to lean against the closed doors for a moment, her shoulders heaving, before she could turn around to face Barron and Jake. Her words repeated inside her head. _It's been my privilege to care for you all_ – and it was true.

Dying for these children would be her privilege now.


	4. Aftermath

At some point, I'll probably rearrange these chapters and put them in the order that they occur. But for now, we're still looping back and forth through the movie.

* * *

 _"Miss Peregrine, there's a policeman at the door! He says it's about the pub!"_

The excitement of Jake's visit to their time-loop kept the children up later than usual after he left. Claire, Bronwyn, and the twins all piled into Claire's bed that night, whispering and giggling excitedly behind their hands until Miss Peregrine made them go to sleep. Down the hall in Emma and Olive's bedroom, lantern light still burned brightly beneath the closed door. Their room had electricity of course, like the rest of house, but Olive preferred fire that she'd made herself.

Inside, in the gentle orange glow, Emma and Olive were huddled around Fiona, who sat quietly on a chair between them. "It-it doesn't look quite like the picture, does it?" Emma asked Olive, as the two of them studied the back of Fiona's head. "I can't get the strands to stay even. Doesn't it say anything about how to do that?"

Olive flipped through the pages of the old magazine where they'd found instructions for making a French braid. "Um... no," she answered, scanning the page. "It just says to keep adding more hair as you bring the braid down her head."

Emma sighed and picked up the comb again. Because of her peculiarity, her sighs were always heavy, but this one was especially so. Fiona's hair swayed in her sigh like it was a gust of wind. Fiona's long, fine hair was the best in the house for braiding, and she'd been very patient while the older girls practiced on her, but Emma was getting frustrated.

Olive rallied to encourage her. "All right, we'll just try starting over again," she said cheerfully, her gloved fingers undoing the half-made twists in Fiona's hair. She glanced sideways at Emma as she combed it out again. "Why are you suddenly so eager to learn a French braid, anyway?"

Emma stayed focused on combing Fiona's hair and shrugged in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. "Oh, I was just bored. I wanted to try something new."

"It doesn't have anything to do with _Jake_ , does it?" Olive asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Emma sighed again and gazed away out the window. Outside, the night was clear enough that she could see beyond the garden, almost all the way down to the seashore. "He's from the year _2016_ ," she said slowly. "That's so far in the future, I can't even imagine..."

But she was interrupted by Miss Peregrine's footsteps in the hall outside, and then the door opened. "Emma, Olive, you two should start getting ready for b – " But Miss Peregrine stopped when she saw Fiona in their room. "Fiona, what are you still doing up?" she asked the younger girl. "You should've been asleep twenty-six minutes ago."

"It's our fault, Miss P," Emma said quickly. "Olive and I wanted to learn a French braid, and we asked Fiona to let us practice on her."

Fiona stood up from the chair, but she stayed close to it, her fingers fiddling with the top rung. Emma suddenly realized that Fiona had been very quiet all evening, barely saying a word as she and Olive tried braiding her hair.

"Miss P," she asked suddenly, "am I a... a freak?"

 _Freak_ was something of a slur in Miss Peregrine's house. Her children all had unpleasant memories of being called freaks, or worse, before they'd come to live with her, often by their own families. Emma and Olive glanced worriedly at each other, but Miss Peregrine just puffed her pipe.

"And what makes you ask that, Fiona?"

Fiona tried shrugging and looking away, but of course Miss Peregrine wasn't fooled.

"No," she said gently, "you need to tell me."

Fiona shuffled her bare feet against the floor. In her pajamas, with her hair loose, she looked smaller than usual. "Well... when the man from the pub came to our house today, he said I was a freak."

"He did not," Olive gasped, while Emma fumed, "What a horrible old man! Did you kill him this time, Miss P?"

She hadn't, but she _would_ kill him next time, Miss Peregrine decided. Perhaps she would even find some way to kill him _slowly_ , and really make him pay for calling one of her children a freak. But nothing of her anger showed in her face. She simply sat on the edge of Olive's bed and held out one arm to Fiona. "Come sit with me and tell me what happened," she said, and Fiona did.

 _She smiled when she heard the shrill ring of the doorbell, but as soon as she opened it, the balding, heavy-set man on their porch took one look at her and spat,_ "She's _probably a little freak too, just like the ones who burnt down my pub."_

 _Fiona's smile slid off her face. The policeman with him said something to him that she couldn't catch, but she heard the pub-owner's response. "I tell you, the things they did weren't bloody natural," he muttered, staring at Fiona with such cold, suspicious eyes that she had to swallow and look away._

 _"Where's your caretaker?" the policeman asked Fiona. His voice wasn't mean like the pub-owner's, but neither was it kind._

 _Fiona fiddled with the doorknob. "Sh-she's out in the garden."_

 _"Well, go and fetch her. Tell her I need to speak to her about what happened in the pub."_

 _Fiona glared at him, now feeling as thorny as a thistle. The policeman telling her what to do was almost as bad as the pub-owner calling her a freak. Miss Peregrine had a rule that her children were not to obey orders from anyone but her... but she_ would _want to know that these men were here, so Fiona turned away and ran out to the garden to find her._

Miss Peregrine put one arm around her and pulled her close. Fiona leaned her head on her shoulder, breathing in the smokey smell of her pipe. "I'm sorry you had to hear that, Fiona," Miss Peregrine said, her voice as soft and warm as the firelight. "But tell me, why do you think the pub-owner called you that?"

Fiona blinked, and Olive and Emma, who were now sitting on the bed on the other side of Miss Peregrine, looked surprised, too. It had never occurred to them to consider things from the pub-owner's perspective.

Fiona puzzled out slowly, "Well... he was probably angry because Millard broke his dishes and Olive started a fire in his pub... and confused, because he didn't know how they did it, and he was probably scared of me, because he thought I could do it, too."

"Yes, exactly," Miss Peregrine nodded. "He was angry and confused and scared, and that didn't make it right for him to call you a freak, of course, but the point is that it didn't have anything to do with you. It had only to do with him. Do you understand?"

Fiona nodded, but it hadn't escaped her that Miss Peregrine still hadn't answered her original question. "But _am_ I a freak, Miss P?" she asked again.

Miss Peregrine gestured to the older girls with her pipe. "Well, do you think _we're_ freaks? Olive and Emma and I?"

She wasn't sure about herself, but when it came to Miss Peregrine and her housemates, Fiona didn't need to think about it. _They_ couldn't possibly be freaks. Miss Peregrine was the finest ymbryne in the whole world, and Emma and Olive were like her own sisters. Olive had recently read _Little Women_ to Fiona – Miss Peregrine was always encouraging her children to read to each other, even though they could all read themselves, because that kept at least two of them occupied – and Fiona felt sure that she loved them as much as Jo loved Amy, or even as much as Jo loved Beth.

"Oh no," she answered immediately, "of course _you're_ not freaks."

Miss Peregrine smiled and tucked a lock of Fiona's hair behind her ear. "Well, you're peculiar just like us, aren't you, Fiona? If you were a freak, then we'd all have to be."

Fiona smiled. She hadn't thought about it like that, but Miss Peregrine had a way of explaining things so they seemed very obvious. "Oh, then I guess I'm not one," she said, and she giggled a little at how silly she'd been to ever think so.

"Of course you're not, but you _are_ up thirty-four minutes past your bedtime," Miss Peregrine said in her usual serious voice again, standing up from Olive's bed. "So say goodnight and come along now."

Fiona recognized her tone and quickly stood up too. She took Miss Peregrine's hand and called goodnight to Emma and Olive over her shoulder as they left. Miss Peregrine gave them a stern look. "And you two know better than keeping her up so late."

"We're sorry, Miss P," Olive said. "Goodnight, Fiona."

"Thanks for letting us practice on your hair," Emma added.

The pub-owner's words had made her feel very small, but as she climbed into bed in her own room, Fiona felt quite big again – big enough to see beyond her own problems to other people's. She remembered her hair swaying in Emma's sigh. Emma had seemed sad since Jake left, almost like she had after Abe left them years ago.

"Miss P," Fiona asked, "will Jake come visit us again?"

"I don't know," Miss Peregrine answered, switching off her bedside lamp. "We'll have to wait and see."

Fiona didn't believe that. Miss Peregrine knew _everything_. "Do you _think_ he will?"

"Is your peculiarity asking questions now? Go to sleep." She smoothed the covers over her and touched her cheek. "Goodnight, Fiona."

"Goodnight, Miss P," she answered, yawning, and she fell asleep hoping that Jake would come back.


	5. Bees and Blossoms

This chapter is set while the children are sailing the ocean liner from Cairnholm to Blackpool. I had to put a little Fiona/Hugh in it because they're so stinkin' cute together. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed!

* * *

The ship was a gloomy place – dark and drippy from being underwater for years – and the children were all shaken after escaping the bombs so narrowly. But the main cabin on the deck felt cozy after Olive made a campfire. Fiona grew potatoes and basil, and they all ate baked potatoes in a circle around the fire, while they made battle plans for Blackpool. Enoch was going to create an army of skeletons to fight the hollows, but fighting the wights and saving Miss Peregrine would be harder.

"You can throw things at them from a distance," Jake told Bronwyn firmly, "but don't come too close." Bronwyn nodded.

"Hugh, you can order your bees to sting the wights, can't you?" Enoch asked, turning to him.

Hugh froze. The question was so horrible that for a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't answer. Then, slowly, he put down his baked potato and said, "My-my bees aren't peculiar. They're just ordinary bees."

"But can't you make them sting if–"

"No! They _die_ if they sting!" Hugh burst out angrily, interrupting him.

His older housemates looked at each other in a serious way that Hugh didn't like _at all_. Then Olive said gently, "Hugh, listen, I know you don't want to make your bees sting anybody. I know Abe didn't want to leave us and go fight the Germans, either. But I think it's part of being at war – making sacrifices. It's going to take all of our peculiarities to save Miss P."

Hugh bit his lip. Was she saying that he had to choose between letting his bees live or saving Miss Peregrine? That was too awful to even think about. He loved Miss Peregrine like his own mother. He didn't want anything bad to happen to her... but the idea of making his bees sting, of ordering them to their deaths when they trusted him so much... The queasiness in Hugh's stomach had nothing to do with motion of the ship.

"Hugh, you have to– " Emma began.

But on the words _have to_ , Hugh snapped. "I don't _have_ to do what you say! _You're_ not Miss P!" He sprang to his feet, tears blurring his vision, and ran blindly out of the cabin and down the first flight of stairs that he saw.

The lower level of the ship was even gloomier than the deck, with puddles of seaweed and muck on the floor, and Hugh was too nervous to venture from the stairs. He sat down on the bottom step with his chin in his hands. The thoughts rolling around in his head were almost as dark as the ship. He wanted to defeat the wights and save Miss Peregrine, of course... but his bees were so peaceful; they only wanted to pollinate flowers and make honey. How could he possibly use them as weapons?

After a few minutes, Hugh heard footsteps behind him, as one of his housemates came downstairs after him. He didn't look up, but he recognized Fiona's legs as she sat down next to him. "I thought your bees might like some flowers," she said softly. "Shall I grow some?"

Hugh blinked at the damp, bare floor of the hallway, then turned his head to look at her. "Can you, without any soil?"

Fiona just smiled at him. In a few minutes, there was a small plant of white alyssum in front of them – one of his bees' favorite flowers, because it smelled like honey. It was strange to see the cheerful, snowy blossoms in the dank hallway of the ship, to smell their sweetness over the muck and saltwater. Hugh opened his mouth wide and let all his bees out, and they buzzed happily around the blossoms. Watching them made Hugh feel more protective than ever.

"I'm saving my vines for when we get to Blackpool," Fiona said. "Jasmine and spinach vines are very strong. If I start them at the wights' feet, I can make the vines grow up around their bodies so they can't move."

Hugh sighed. He didn't want to talk about what would happen when they reached Blackpool. "I can't make my bees sting anyone," he mumbled. "I just _can't_. It would be like killing them. I can't believe the others would even _think_ I'd do that."

"Their peculiarities aren't like ours. Olive told me earlier, 'You can grow another garden, Fiona, a bigger one,' and I can, but I can never get my old garden back. I'm going to miss it."

Hugh nodded. He knew that Fiona loved her plants almost as if they were people. She loved them, he suddenly realized, as much as he loved his bees. "I'm sorry about your garden," he said, even though the words felt insufficient.

"I-I'm going to miss it..." Fiona said again, but her voice trembled. She paused and took a deep breath to steady herself. "But I don't mind losing my garden... I mean, not _so_ much, not as long as we're all together and Miss P's all right."

It was awful to imagine what might be happening to Miss Peregrine right now, being held captive by wights in a bird cage. She couldn't even defend herself in bird-form. Hugh knew that the wights were planning to do some sort of experiment on her, but the older children refused to tell him details when he'd asked about it. Hugh's stomach grew easy again, and he swallowed hard, afraid that he might throw up.

"She'll be all right," he said fiercely, trying to convince himself as much as Fiona. "She _has_ to be."

For a long moment, they were both silent, then Fiona held one hand out, and a few of Hugh's bees landed gently on her fingertips. "It's silly, isn't it," she said, "to think some people are actually scared of bees?"

"People are very stupid about bees. They think bees _like_ stinging, but they don't. They only sting as a very last resort."

"That's sort of like being peculiar, isn't it? Ordinary people are scared of us just because we can do things they can't."

Hugh titled his head. He had never thought about it like that, but Fiona was right. Ordinary people were scared of him just for being full of bees. They were even scared of Olive for being able to start fire with her hands, and being scared of Olive, who was almost as motherly as Miss Peregrine, was more stupid than being scared of bees. But people were scared because they didn't understand.

Fiona sat up straighter as an idea came to her. "Hugh, the wights don't know how nice your bees are, do they? What if you just told your bees to fly at them and give them a scare, but not actually sting them?"

Hugh felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Fiona, what a good idea," he said, sighing in relief. "That's just what I'll do. That'll work."

He could imagine now what would happen in Blackpool. The wights weren't ordinary, but Hugh felt sure that just like ordinary people, they wouldn't understand. They would run in terror from his harmless, well-behaved little bees. For the first time since Barron had taken Miss Peregrine away, Hugh felt a glimmer of hope that they really would be all right, somehow. "That'll work," he said again, softly.

Fiona laid her hand over his. "Come on, then," she said, "let's go back up and tell the others."

Hugh's queasiness was gone, and he felt hungry again. He stood and gathered his bees back inside him, and he and Fiona went back upstairs to the deck hand-in-hand.


	6. A Wing and a Prayer

This chapter is set shortly after the previous one, during the kids' night on the ocean liner. (To refresh, they left Cairnholm the night after the loop closed and arrived in Blackpool the next morning.) My opening quote for this chapter is said by Enoch to Olive after she nearly dies in Blackpool, which I realize might be misleading because this chapter isn't about Enoch and Olive at all, but I thought the quote was appropriate for Emma's feelings. Some of this chapter is Emma solo, but Jake shows up near the end. :)

* * *

 _"All these years, I never appreciated you."_

The children all slept poorly that night on the ship. Enoch found some bedding on a lower level and hauled it up to the deck cabin, and Emma used her peculiarity to dry it off. They were all too nervous to sleep alone, so they spread the blankets and pillows out on the floor of the cabin in two big pallets, one for the girls and one for the boys. It was comfortable enough, but after spending seventy-three years in the same beds every night, it was hard to fall asleep anywhere else.

The third time that Emma woke up, she couldn't stop thinking about all the things that might go wrong in Blackpool. Her wide eyes traced the shadows on the ceiling, her heart full of fear for Miss Peregrine – and for herself, too – and she could tell that she wasn't going to fall back asleep soon. Perhaps a walk around the deck would clear her head and make her tired again. She carefully untangled herself from Olive and Claire and strapped on her shoes.

Outside the cabin, the deck was dark and quiet. Emma didn't know the time – two or three in the morning, maybe? The slow tred of her lead shoes was the only sound as she walked along the edge of the deck, looking out over the dark rolling waters. Her heart felt even heavier than her shoes as Hugh's angry words echoed inside her head.

 _"I don't have to do what you say!_ You're _not Miss P!"_

Emma sighed. Yes, she was very painfully aware that she wasn't Miss P. Miss Peregrine had always made it look so easy to break up their fights, to keep all of them happy. Was it easy for her because she was an ymbryne? Or was it hard for her too, and Emma had just been too busy feeling sorry for herself to ever notice how hard Miss Peregrine worked and how much she did for all of them?

Tears pricked at Emma's eyes. She had always felt so sorry for herself, living day after tedious day trapped in that time-loop. Now she racked her brain, trying to remember... had she ever even thanked Miss Peregrine for rescuing her from the circus? Had she ever thanked her for anything?

Ever since Barron had taken Miss Peregrine away, Emma had been trying to act brave for the younger children, to reassure them that Miss Peregrine would be all right, but alone on the deck now, her worst fears overran her mind. Miss Peregrine might already be dead. Emma's heart seemed to stop as she realized how possible it was. Barron might've already arrived in Blackpool, done his experiment on her, and killed her. Or perhaps he hadn't done the experiment yet, but he was torturing Miss Peregrine first, just for the fun of it. _A mad scientist,_ Abe had described Barron once, but just how mad was the man? How evil? Emma's shudders had nothing to do with the chilly sea breezes.

She looked around, trying to find something to distract her from her thoughts. Glancing up, she saw a bird flying in the night sky, almost right over their ship, and for a second, her heart leapt up... but no, it was only an ordinary bird, a seagull. Wherever Miss Peregrine was now, she wasn't watching over them anymore.

Emma could float, of course, and she was good at recognizing people by the tops of their heads, but she never floated higher than the roof of their house. Watching the seagull now, she wondered what she might look like from a bird's-eye view... and then she remembered a conversation that she'd overheard once between Miss Peregrine and Hugh. Miss Peregrine took trips outside their loop as a falcon sometimes, because she could travel so much faster as a falcon than she could as a human, and after she returned from one, Hugh asked her, "Miss P, how do we look when you're a bird?"

"You don't look any different, Hugh. Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean when you're flying up very high," Hugh clarified. "We must look awfully small. How low do you have to get before you know who we are?"

Miss Peregrine had smiled and put one hand on his head. "It makes no difference how high I go, Hugh. I always know who my children are. I know every hair on your heads."

Remembering it now, a thought occurred to Emma. Miss Peregrine wasn't watching over them anymore... but perhaps someone _else_ still was.

Emma hadn't gone to church in a very long time – she _couldn't_ go, since September 3, 1943, was a Friday, not a Sunday – but there had been a copy of the Bible in the library at their old house, and sometimes, out of sheer boredom on the long, repetitive loop-days, she read it. She remembered now, very vaguely, something about the Holy Spirit turning into a dove.

If the Holy Spirit turned into a dove... did that mean God was an ymbryne?

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. God was supposed to be watching over everyone and everything, and who could do that better than an ymbryne? And who better to help them save Miss Peregrine than another ymbryne?

Emma thought she should kneel down to pray, but she couldn't sit or kneel without something to hold her down, or she would float back up to standing. So she just closed her eyes and clasped her hands. She couldn't remember ever praying before, but the words came to her very naturally.

"Dear God," she whispered, "Miss Peregrine's been very good to all of us. If you'll please let her live and be all right, I promise I won't take her for granted ever again. Amen."

When she opened her eyes again, the night was still as dark as before, she and her house-mates were still on their own, and Miss Peregrine was still in danger. Nothing had changed, and yet for some reason, Emma felt better. As she walked back across the deck to the cabin, the door swung open, and her eyes made out Jake, his dark hair tousled from sleep, looking like a soldier with Miss Peregrine's crossbow across his chest. He scanned the deck and hurried over as soon as he saw her.

"Emma, what are you doing?" he asked. He sounded a bit panicked, and even in the darkness, Emma could see the fear in his wide eyes. "I woke up, and when you weren't there, I didn't know... I thought..."

"I'm all right, Jake," she said softly. Without meaning to, she pressed one hand against his chest, right over his heart, and it seemed to reassure him. She could feel his heartbeat relax beneath her palm. The two of them stood like that for a long moment, and it was reassuring for Emma, too – Jake's sweater warm against her fingers despite the chilly sea air, his steady breath reminding her that she wasn't alone despite their uncertain future.

Then Emma remembered Horace's dream about her and Jake, how the the two of them had moved closer and closer together, until their lips almost met... and suddenly, the privacy of this moment – the late hour, the empty deck – felt too intimidating.

"I just couldn't sleep," she said, slowly lowering her hand, "so I went for a little walk."

Jake nodded, his eyes full of concern now. "I know you're worried about Miss Peregrine."

Emma took a deep breath. "I am, but I think she's going to be all right. I really do. God is an ymbryne too, you know."

Jake blinked, puzzled. "What?"

Emma felt her cheeks grow hot. She hadn't mean to say _that_ out loud, even though she felt certain that it was true. "Never mind," she answered, shaking her head. "Come on, we should get back inside." Jake slipped her hand into hers as they walked back to the cabin, her pale blue dress glowing like a beacon in the darkness. They didn't let go of each other's hands until they went back to their sleeping areas on opposite sides of the cabin.


	7. Stronghold

I mentioned in Chapter 3 that Bronwyn once accidentally fractured one of the twin's arm. In this chapter, I decided to write it — or more specifically, the aftermath of it.

My entry for the January Song Challenge at the Plight of the Little-Known Fandom forum.

* * *

Life in Miss Peregrine's time-loop usually ran as smoothly as her pocketwatch. The days ticked by, always warm and sunny, and everything happened on schedule, from when the children woke up at 8:00 sharp, to when the cloud shaped like a duck sailed over the house at 2:26. One of the few unpleasant days that ever happened in Miss Peregrine's loop was when Bronwyn, forgetting for a moment that she was as strong as ten men, accidentally fractured Twin A's arm during a game of tag.

Twin A felt much better after Miss Peregrine put a splint and some ice on his arm. She hated to leave him when he was hurt, but taking care of eleven children meant making hard decisions, and emotional wounds needed tending as much as physical ones. Bronwyn had felt so guilty when she realized what she'd done that she'd run upstairs crying and still hadn't come down. Miss Peregrine told Twin A to rest and settled him on the sofa between Twin B and Claire for company. Claire brought her favorite book, a gift that Abe had sent them from the future. "Shall I read to you while you're resting?" she asked. "I can read _Where the Wild Things Are_ all by myself now."

 _The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another..._ Claire's high voice faded as Miss Peregrine climbed the stairs in search of Bronwyn. In Bronwyn and Fiona's room, she found Olive on her hands and knees on the rug, peering beneath the bed. Her red hair looked more fiery than ever in the September sunlight slanting through the window. Miss Peregrine didn't see Bronwyn, but she heard her sniffling under the bed.

"I know you feel bad, Bronwyn," Olive was saying, "but you'll feel better if you come out from under there."

But Bronwyn didn't answer. She was curled up against the wall, out of reach, thinking about how terrible she was. She had hurt Twin A's arm, probably broken it — she was almost as bad as a hollow. She remembered Victor, and that made her feel even sadder. Victor had been stronger than she was, but he was always so careful, so gentle; he had never hurt anyone. Bronwyn thought that perhaps the hollow should've killed _her_ , instead of him, and she sniffled again and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.

Miss Peregrine watched the scene from the doorway for a moment. She was touched that Olive was trying to coax her out; Olive understood, better than the other children, how Bronwyn was feeling right now.

"Bronwyn..." Olive began again, but she stood up and smoothed down her dress when Miss Peregrine came in. "Miss P, how's A?"

"He's going to be fine. I managed to put a splint on his arm. It's just a fracture, but he'll need to rest it for a while."

From under her bed, Bronwyn started crying again, and Olive pursed her lips worriedly. "I've been trying to get her to come out, Miss P, but she won't," she fretted. "I told her nobody's angry with her, but..."

Miss Peregrine squeezed one of Olive's always-gloved hands. "It's very thoughtful of you to want to make her feel better, Olive. Why don't you give me a minute alone with her?" Olive nodded and slipped out of the room.

Miss Peregrine didn't say anything for a moment. From under the bed, Bronwyn watched her heels walk slowly across the floor, and she listened to her strike a match and light her pipe. Her heels came closer to the bed, and she neatly folded back the coverlet that Bronwyn had tugged down to hide herself further.

"I suppose," Miss Peregrine said calmly, "that you must feel very bad about hurting A, even if it was an accident."

But her calm manner didn't reassure Bronwyn. She deserved to be punished — why wasn't Miss Peregrine scolding her? "I'm so terrible," she wailed miserably. "I'm the worst peculiar there ever was. You ought to spank me, Miss P. You ought to spank me and send me to bed without supper and—"

"That's enough carrying on, Bronwyn," Miss Peregrine said firmly, cutting her off. There were, she knew, some ymbrynes who punished their children in such ways, but Miss Peregrine had never once done either. "You know I would never raise a hand to you or let you go hungry. Come out here and sit with me."

Time alone with Miss Peregrine was a coveted thing among her children; there were so many of them that it was always hard to come by. Bronwyn didn't think that she deserved it right now, but she also couldn't resist the offer of it. She answered, "Yes, Miss P," as she'd been taught to say whenever Miss Peregrine gave an order, and she crawled out. Miss Peregrine sat down on her bed, and Bronwyn climbed into her lap.

She was dusty and disheveled, but Miss Peregrine gathered her close and wiped her runny face with her handkerchief. Bronwyn wrapped her skinny arms around her — skinny, but so much stronger than they looked — and tucked her head against her breast. From here, she could hear Miss Peregrine's breath and her heartbeat, could smell the smoke of her pipe, could feel the hard, flat circle of her pocketwatch pressing against her. From here, all her troubles seemed far away. Miss Peregrine ran her long nails through her hair, and Bronwyn closed her eyes, but she opened them again when Miss Peregrine spoke to her.

"Look here, Bronwyn, I'll show you something," Miss Peregrine said, and she pushed up her sleeve. Bronwyn raised her head. She saw a strange pale spot on Miss Peregrine's forearm. It was almost white, and the skin there looked stretch tight. "It's a burn mark," Miss Peregrine said quietly, in response to her questioning look. "Olive burned me once, a long time ago now."

Bronwyn stared, wide-eyed and a little frightened. She felt so horrible for hurting Twin A that she couldn't imagine how much worse it would be to hurt Miss Peregrine, who took care of them all. And being burned must hurt dreadfully too, worse than that time Bronwyn had touched the pie tin before it cooled.

"It was an accident, of course," Miss Peregrine went on. "She forgot she'd taken off her gloves, just like you forgot how strong you are. But now she's more careful, and she hasn't burned anyone since. Tell me, do you think Olive's terrible?"

Bronwyn shook her head.

"Use your words."

"No, Olive's very nice."

"She is, and you are, too. You just had an accident, and all peculiars have accidents sometimes."

" _You_ never do, Miss P," Bronwyn said, as she ran one finger along the smooth golden pocketwatch chain that always hung from Miss Peregrine's waist.

"That's true, but I'm an ymbryne. I do want you to apologize to A, because that's the polite thing to do. You'll tell him you're very sorry, and you'll try to be more gentle from now on."

"Yes, Miss P," Bronwyn answered automatically. Then she peered closer at the old burn mark on Miss Peregrine's arm. She touched it, very cautiously, with one finger. "It doesn't hurt anymore?"

"No, it hasn't hurt for ages." She wiped Bronwyn's face again and smoothed down her hair. "Now, do you think you're ready to go back downstairs?"

She wasn't — she hated the thought of seeing Twin A with his arm in a splint — but it was hard to say no to Miss Peregrine. _"Yes, Miss P"_ had been drilled into her. So Bronwyn tried to stall. "Well..."

But Miss Peregrine smiled and understood exactly. "Do you want me to hold you a little longer?"

"Yes, please," Bronwyn whispered, and she nuzzled her head against Miss Peregrine's breast again.

* * *

Later that afternoon, while the twins were resting and after Bronwyn had made up with them, she, Claire, and Fiona spilled outside into the warm September sunshine. Bronwyn was very dusty from being under her bed, and Fiona had the idea that they could beat her clothes clean, like they did with the rugs when they helped Miss Peregrine clean house. On the back lawn, Bronwyn stripped down to her camisole and bloomers, and they hung her dress and stockings over the clothesline and took turns beating the dust off with the broom handle.

She didn't tell the other girls about how Olive had accidentally burned Miss Peregrine once, but she told them, "Miss P said every peculiar has accidents sometimes. Do you think that's true?"

"It must be true, if Miss P said it," Claire answered. "She knows everything." Fiona nodded in agreement.

Bronwyn giggled, now dry-eyed and rosy-cheeked, as she took her turn beating her clothes clean. She watched the dust fly away on the breeze, and it seemed to carry all her guilty feelings with it. They stayed outside until Miss Peregrine called them in for supper, and as Bronwyn dressed and went inside, she felt like Max in _Where the Wild Things Are,_ the book that she'd heard Claire reading to the twins. The wild rumpus was over, and life was back to normal in their loop. Her supper was waiting for her, and it was still hot.


	8. Harry Potter Tribute

This chapter is tagged to the scene where Jake visits Miss Peregrine's house for the second time. To refresh, Bronwyn answers the door and invites him to "come and play," but he says that he needs to see Miss Peregrine. I decided to change things up a bit. :)

* * *

Jake had tucked his grandfather's letter to Miss Peregrine safely in his pocket, and he tried to rehearse what he would say to her about it as he walked the long path out to her house on the edge of the island. When the trees finally parted and the house came into view, he saw the younger children on the front lawn, playing in the warm September sun. Their game looked strange; they were all running about, some waving broomsticks, some throwing balls. As Jake approached, Bronwyn spotted him first and hurried over, still clutching a broomstick in her hand.

"Jake, you're back!" she cried excitedly, her curly brown hair flying out behind her. "Come and play with us! We're making up a Muggle version of Quidditch."

Jake blinked, caught off-guard by _Quidditch_ and _Muggle_. He knew the words, of course, but he'd never expected to hear them here in 1943; those words belonged to _his_ time. He heard Millard exclaim, "Look, Jake's come back!" and soon, the other children were gathered around him too, all pink-cheeked and a little out of breath.

"You're playing Quidditch?" he asked slowly, looking around at their brooms.

"Yes, you know, like in Harry Potter," Brownwyn said.

"Haven't you read Harry Potter?" Hugh asked, brushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead.

"Well, yeah, but... how have _you_ read it? Those books haven't been written yet." He was sure that JK Rowling hadn't even been _born_ yet.

He must've looked bewildered, because Fiona giggled a little, pressing one hand over her mouth to hide her smile. "Abe sent them to us from your time," she explained. "He sent us all seven books, and Miss P read them to us, one chapter a night."

"They got so exciting at the ends that we wanted her to read more," Millard went on, "but she said no, we had to make them last."

"She says making things last is _very_ important," Claire added, in the no-nonsense voice she used for quoting Miss Peregrine.

Jake nodded. He hadn't thought about it before, but it had to be hard for Miss Peregrine to keep all her children entertained living in a time-loop. Anything new or different probably had to be stretched out and made to last as long as possible. But then he frowned as he remembered Miss Peregrine's strictest rule.

"But... I thought Miss Peregrine didn't let you have things from the future?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, she doesn't, usually, but Harry Potter is just a fantasy series, of course," Horace explained in his posh way. He began smoothing the lapels of his jacket, which had gotten mussed while playing. "None of it actually happens, so Miss P said it was all right. But she would never let us have, say, a newspaper from the future, or a history book, or anything like that."

"Those wouldn't be as good as Harry Potter, anyway," Millard said. Jake was getting better at telling what the invisible boy was doing, and now he heard the scoff in Millard's voice and noticed how his shirt sleeve bobbed, as if he were waving one arm dismissively. "Jake, are there Harry Potter _movies_ in your time, too?"

"Yeah, there's a whole series of them," Jake answered, and the kids all looked jealous.

"Blimey, imagine getting to see a movie of Harry Potter," Hugh said wistfully.

Bronwyn titled her head to one side. "But I wonder, how do they do the Quidditch scenes? And the Weasleys's flying car? And all the magic?"

Jake considered telling them about computers and special effects, but he held back. How could he explain all that? And besides, Miss Peregrine had made it very clear that she didn't want him telling her children about his time.

"I know, they must be cartoon movies," Horace said, and Jake decided it was best to just nod.

Jake had always liked the books, but when he was nine, the last movie was released, and it had swept him along into a more avid Harry Potter phase. Between his birthday and Christmas that year, his parents gave him all seven books, all eight movies, a t-shirt, and some toys... but they had never once read the books _to_ him. He remembered lying on the floor of his quiet bedroom, reading the books by himself... and then, with a pang, he pictured Miss Peregrine sitting in her armchair in the parlor, reading aloud from _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,_ with all her kids gathered around her and a fire in the fireplace, like a scene from a movie. An empty feeling spread in his chest, and Jake thought he understood now why his grandfather always got so wistful when he told stories about Miss Peregrine's home.

"And after she'd read them all to us," Fiona told him excitedly, "we started acting them out."

"Not the entire books," Horace clarified. "We only perform select scenes, you know. We take turns doing different characters, but generally, I play Draco Malfoy, Fiona plays Hermione, Hugh plays Ron..."

"...and _I_ play Harry," Millard finished proudly, "because I'm invisible, and Harry has the Invisibility Cloak. We've made costumes and everything. Hang on, I'll show my mask."

Jake watched as Millard's clothes turned and ran up the front steps onto the porch, where a Harry Potter book – he couldn't tell which one from this distance – and a mask sat on the rocking chair. Millard picked up the mask, tied it over the empty space where his head was, and ran back over to them. It was painted papier-mache mask, obviously homemade, but Jake could tell from the black hair around the edges, the glasses, and of course, the lightning bolt scar, that it was Harry Potter.

"Hey, that's pretty cool," he said. The emptiness behind the eye holes was only a little creepy.

Jake had dressed as Harry Potter for Halloween one year. His mom bought him an expensive costume online, but she'd never taken him trick-or-treating. His grandfather, or a neighbor, or a baby-sitter had always done that.

"We tried to get Miss P to take her bird-form and play Hedwig – you know, Harry's owl? – but she said no, because she's a falcon, not an owl."

"But she watches every production we put on," Bronwyn said. "She says they're very good."

The empty feeling inside Jake grew worse, as if he were a hollow. He had been in a school play once, back in fourth grade, a Thanksgiving pageant that assigned parts to every student in his class, or else he wouldn't have even _thought_ about going near a stage. But his parents hadn't come to see it. Something had come up at his mom's job, and if his dad had even given an excuse, Jake didn't remember it now.

Fortunately, the children were too young to notice his melancholy. Horace said, "And Fiona used her peculiarity to grow a tree just like the Whomping Willow. It's really something."

The children all began talking at once then. "Yes, it's around behind the house!" "Wouldn't you like to see it, Jake?" "Fiona can make the branches fly about and everything." One of the twins took his hand, and it was hard not to let himself get pulled along with their enthusiasm. He had to remind himself of why he had come back to this time. His grandfather's letter.

"I need to see Miss Peregrine first," he said loudly, to make himself heard over their chatter. "Do you know where she is?"

They told him that she was in the kitchen and went back to their Quidditch game as he went inside. He glanced at them over his shoulder - all of them running this way and that, calling to each other. Maybe if Jake hadn't been an only-child, maybe if he'd had siblings to play with... but no, he had to stop comparing his childhood to these kids. It was looking lonelier and more depressing all the time.

Jake had secretly felt sorry for Miss Peregrine's children ever since he'd met them. Miss Peregrine kept them so sheltered; they would never know the future beyond 1943, never know the world beyond this little island. Jake knew a million things they didn't, and he knew that they were very jealous of him for it, but now, for the first time, _he_ felt jealous of _them_. His time had computers and cell phones and the Internet, but they had something he didn't have, something more precious than technology.

Emma had been so impressed when Jake had secretly shown her his cell phone... but Emma had never seen his parents, always looking up from their phones with a distracted "What was that, Jake?" or "Hang on a sec, buddy, I gotta finish this text" - or even worse, not hearing him at all. Jake had been competing with his parents' phones and tablets for their attention for as long as he could remember. Miss Peregrine was strict, but he couldn't imagine her treating her children like that. There was, he realized with a jolt, not one single screen in her entire house.

A warm, pleasant feeling wrapped itself around him as he went up the steps to the front porch. The sadness that had filled him melted away. In some strange way, Miss Peregrine's house already felt more like home than the house in Florida where he'd grown up. But maybe that wasn't so strange. Miss Peregrine had raised his grandfather, and didn't that mean she was like family to Jake, too? Yesterday, when the little kids had invited him to move in, he'd dismissed it; after all, who in their right mind would want to leave 2016 to live in 1943? But as he went inside now, the idea began to feel vaguely tempting.

* * *

P.S. This was my entry for the "Little Free Library" challenge at Caesar's Palace. My prompt was "a character who feels as if they are stuck between two different worlds."

P.P.S. Reviews are love.


	9. Most Ymbrynes

I actually have this head-canon that Miss Peregrine is different from most ymbrynes in how she treats her children, so I wrote this chapter to explore that a little. Since most of it's between her and other ymbrynes, I'm calling her by her first name for a change.

* * *

They arrived with no warning, like hunting birds dropping down on their prey. It was mid-morning, the time of day that Alma made her children spend on lessons – Abe, her newest arrival, was learning English, Claire and Bronwyn were learning to read, and she was teaching the twins sign language, since they couldn't talk – when they heard the knock on their front door.

Alma went into the hall and opened the door to find two other ymbrynes, Miss Avocet and Miss Cuckoo, on the front porch. Miss Avocet ran the academy where all ymbrynes were trained and took their vows, and she often liked to pay surprise visits to loops, to see how her former pupils were getting along. She usually made these trips alone and in the afternoons, but now, she was here in the morning, accompanied by Miss Cuckoo. It was enough to make Alma's protective instincts kick in. Had something happened? Had another loop been raided by hollows?

But her children didn't have her instincts, and they didn't sense that anything was wrong. They had followed Alma into the hallway – visitors were a rare treat in their loop – and most of them had met Miss Avocet before. When Hugh saw her, he rushed forward. "Ooh, are you bringing us a new one, Miss Avocet?" he asked excitedly. "Is that why you've come to visit?" Alma's children were always hoping that she might take in another peculiar child – _a new one,_ they called it – even though she told them that she was busy enough looking after the thirteen of them.

She had told that to Miss Avocet as well, just last week. Shortly after Abe had joined her home, she'd sent a letter to Miss Avocet, saying that she now had thirteen children and didn't think she could properly care for more. All ymbrynes were required to notify Miss Avocet on whether their homes were full or still had room. Perhaps her letter had something to do with Miss Avocet and Miss Cuckoo dropping in like this.

Miss Avocet chuckled a bit as she answered Hugh, "No, I haven't brought any new peculiars today. Miss Cuckoo and I only came to talk to Miss Peregrine." She kept her voice light, but Alma couldn't shake her sense of foreboding.

She put a kettle of tea on for them and sent her children outside to play. They were curious to know what Miss Avocet wanted to talk about, but they were so happy to have their lessons cancelled that they hurried outside without protest. But Alma saw Enoch glance over his shoulder as he stepped into the September sunshine – his dark eyes narrowed beneath his messy bangs, as if he sensed something wrong, too.

"Is something wrong?" Alma blurted out, as soon as her children were outside. She knew it was rude to not even ask them _how do you do_ first, but if they were in danger and she needed to create a new loop, there was no time for pleasantries. "Has another loop been raided?"

"No, the other loops are all safe right now, thank the birds," Miss Avocet answered, shaking her head, and Alma blew out a breath, relieved. "Nothing is wrong, exactly. We've actually come here about your letter." She drew Alma's letter from her coat pocket and unfolded it, and as she did, Alma's sense of relief vanished and she felt a prickling of unease. "I'm afraid I didn't realize until you sent this, Alma," Miss Avocet said slowly, "that you have so many children. Thirteen is a lot to manage by yourself."

"It is, but I think I'm managing quite well," Alma answered quickly, crossing her arms in a motion that immediately struck her as too defensive.

"You know most ymbrynes don't take in more than ten," Miss Avocet went on. The old woman's voice was gentle, as if she were breaking bad news.

Alma stiffened and said nothing. She didn't like where this was going.

"And you graduated from the academy very young," Miss Cuckoo added, speaking for the first time. "You're barely a hundred yet, and already trying to care for thirteen children, and two of them are gorgons, aren't they?"

Alma's pulse quickened. They hadn't come to... they couldn't _possibly_ have come to take one of her children away? For a moment, she couldn't breathe, but then she made her mind up. Well, she wouldn't allow it. She simply wouldn't allow it. Most of her brood had already lost one family; she wouldn't let them lose another. _You can have my children when you pry them from my cold dead hands,_ she thought fiercely, and she was just about to say that when Miss Avocet touched her arm.

"Take a breath, Alma," she said. "We've only come to make sure you haven't gotten yourself in over your head. I've seen many ymbrynes do that, especially ones as young as you. Actually maintaining a loop and caring for children is very different from just learning about it, you know."

"Of course," Alma said calmly, nodding, but she couldn't make herself relax. The tea kettle whistled just then, and she nearly jumped. Thank the birds that her children weren't there to see her so on-edge.

They drank their tea in the parlor, which felt almost like an interrogation. Alma remained composed as Miss Avocet and Miss Cuckoo questioned her at length about life in her loop, her children's routines, how she disciplined them when they misbehaved, how she helped them control their peculiarities – especially Olive and the twins, whose peculiarities were so potentially dangerous.

All ymbrynes were required to give Miss Avocet a list with the date and location of their loop, and their children's names, ages, and peculiarities. They had brought Alma's list with them. "Oh, you've got a gardener," Miss Cuckoo said, impressed, when she spied Fiona's name. "How convenient. My children hate having to work our vegetable garden. I don't suppose you'd be willing to trade her?"

Alma glared at the woman over her teacup, fighting the urge to take her bird-form and scratch her eyes out. Fiona was very sensitive about how useful her peculiarity was, and she often worried that people liked her peculiarity more than her. Just recently, after Hugh and Millard asked her to grow some blackberries, Alma had found Fiona pouting and reassured the girl that she and the other children liked her for who she was, not for what she could do. She'd told her that if she ever decided to stop using her peculiarity – which she never would, of course, she loved her garden far too much – and never grew any food for them to eat again, they would still like her just as much.

"Would you really, Miss P?" Fiona had asked, brightening. "And you'd still let me live here and take care of me and everything?"

"Of course I would, Fiona," Alma answered, pulling her close. "After all, I took a vow to care for _you,_ not for your peculiarity."

Thinking back to it now, Alma cringed to imagine what Miss Cuckoo would have told her, or how exploited Fiona would've been living in her loop. "Her _name_ is Fiona," she answered sharply, "and none of my children are up for trade."

That was something Alma had always despised about her fellow ymbrynes, though it wasn't her place to say so. Some ymbrynes traded children, based on whose peculiarity was most useful or easiest to control. But when Alma had taken her vows, she'd made another vow to herself, that she would never do such a thing.

She had sworn off other practices, too. Miss Avocet and Miss Cuckoo were both surprised when she said that she never spanked her children or sent them to bed without supper, which were common methods of discipline among ymbrynes. Alma's children were usually well-behaved, but when they weren't, her punishments varied between having to spend all day in your room, or having to eat bread and milk for supper by yourself in the kitchen, while everyone else ate a proper meal in the dining room, or having to go to bed early and miss the reset.

"And the reset in our loop is quite a show," Alma couldn't help bragging. "My children look forward to it every day."

"Well, I still think good old-fashioned spankings are necessary to keep children in line," Miss Cuckoo snipped, raising her eyebrows.

"And I think it's something only sub-par ymbrynes resort to," Alma snapped back. She was so angry that her teacup rattled in her hand, and she had to set it down. _You don't know what it's like,_ she wanted to scream. _You don't know what it's like to be struck by someone who's supposed to care for you._ Her brother's angry face flashed through her mind, and even after all these years, Alma couldn't help flinching. No, her children would never know what that was like.

"Settle down, both of you," Miss Avocet cut in, tapping her cane on the floor. "We're not here to debate how children should be disciplined." She picked up the list of Alma's children and perused it again. Alma suddenly sat up very straight, alert. "Well, you do have quite a full house here, Alma, but I think–"

"Excuse me, please," Alma interrupted, and without another word, she got up and dashed out of the room. Miss Avocet and Miss Cuckoo blinked at each other for a moment, bewildered, then got up and followed after her.

Alma had hurried outside to the back garden, where Enoch was holding hands with Claire, leading her across the grass to the house. Little Claire was sniffling piteously, trying not to cry, and her pink dress was streaked with blood and dirt. Enoch explained what had happened, even though Alma could tell just by looking. Claire, Bronwyn, and the twins had been playing tag when Claire tripped and fell, catching herself with one hand in the gravel that bordered the walk.

"Let me have a look at that hand, Claire," Alma ordered gently, and the girl whimpered but didn't protest as Alma unwrapped her hand from the folds of her skirt and pried her fingers open. Her palm was bleeding badly and still had bits of gravel stuck to it. It must have been a nasty fall, Miss Avocet thought, but it _hadn't_ been a noisy one. They'd heard nothing at all from where they'd been sitting in the parlor, and yet Alma had known immediately that one of her children was hurt. Miss Avocet felt a new admiration for the younger ymbryne; few of their kind had that instinct.

"I'll take her from here, Enoch," Alma said. She bent down and picked up Claire, and as she did, Miss Avocet saw how the child fit on Alma's hip like a missing puzzle piece, how her sniffling instantly ceased, how she curled her uninjured arm around Alma's shoulder, how she tucked her little head against Alma's neck like it was the safest place in the world.

As an ymbryne, Miss Avocet had very sharp eyes. She could certainly see what was right there in front of her face. Until that moment, she hadn't fully decided whether thirteen children were too many for one ymbryne, but now, she saw that Alma and her brood were too intertwined to be pulled apart.

"I think most ymbrynes with thirteen children would be grateful to be free of one," Miss Cuckoo said softly, as they watched Alma carry Claire into the house, murmuring soothing nothings to her. She seemed to have forgotten all about her two visitors, but that was as it should be. An ymbryne's children should always come first.

"True," Miss Avocet nodded, looking after Alma and smiling, "but I think Miss Peregrine isn't most ymbrynes."


	10. Forever Sixteen

I'm really surprised that I've kept this story going for ten chapters now. As always, I hope you'll enjoy, and thanks to everyone who's reviewed. This chapter is my entry in the current monthly one-shot contest at Caesar's Palace.

* * *

 _"It's just funny to think that one day you'll grow up, like Abe did... and I'll still be here."_

Emma curled up tighter on her window seat, tilting the page toward the sunlight as she reread Abe's most recent letter. He wrote to her often, but still, Emma was stunned by how much time seemed to pass between his letters. It was still hard for her to believe that Abe was actually _aging,_ that was he growing older every single day. He was married now, living in America, and had two young children, a boy and girl. Emma glanced at the postmark stamp on the envelope – _Florida,_ a place she'd never heard of – then returned to the letter.

 _I don't know how Miss P made taking care of thirteen children look so bloody easy. I've only got two, and it's not easy at all._

Abe's letters were usually like that. He downplayed his life, found things to complain about, because he didn't want to make Emma jealous. But she got jealous, anyway. As bad as Abe might try to make it sound, he was growing and changing and doing things, out there in the real world, while here in Miss Peregrine's loop, Emma stayed the same age, never went anywhere, never did anything.

Emma started to reread the letter a third time, but found she couldn't bear it again, so she got up and went outside to clear her head. The younger children were all out in the garden, playing with ice, and Emma tucked her skirt under her legs and sat down on the back steps to watch. They had frozen a pan of water in the kitchen freezer and slid the ice out in one big chunk. Now it was a game to see who could hold the smooth pane of ice in their hands the longest, before they dropped it or had to let go from the cold. The ice was growing slippery as it slowly melted in the September day, making their game harder. They giggled as they passed it between each other and licked the cold water off their fingers.

Emma leaned her chin in her hand and sighed a small, careful sigh, jealously pricking at her again. The little kids were always doing things like that. They could make up a game out of anything at all and keep themselves amused. Life was so simple for them – so _easy_. Of course, they grew bored sometimes, tired of having the same playmates and the same toys day after day after day, but for the most part, they were happy. They loved Miss Peregrine, loved each other, loved living in their loop. They never yearned for more, like Emma did. But then, _they_ would always be little kids, while Emma would always be stuck at this confusing, in-between age of sixteen. It felt almost like a punishment.

Emma sighed again, and this time, she forgot to do it carefully. Her peculiarity made her sighs very strong, and this one was a gust of wind that ruffled the younger children's hair. They turned to look at her, and Bronwyn left their game to skip over to the steps.

"Do you want to play with us, Emma?" she asked brightly. The sun had brought out some new freckles on her nose. "Playing with ice is jolly fun, and it cools you off, too."

Emma smiled but shook her head. "No thanks, Bronwyn." She got up from the steps and began to move away, but Bronwyn skipped right along behind her, waving her arms back and forth.

"Well, after this, we're playing hide-and-seek," she went on. "No peculiarities allowed. Why don't you play that with us? Do you want to hide or seek?"

Emma pursed her lips, annoyed. She loved the little kids like her own brothers and sisters – which they were, she supposed – but they could get on her nerves, too. She had snapped at Claire a few weeks ago for doing exactly this, tagging along and pestering her, and later she'd overheard Claire ask Miss Peregrine what was wrong with her. Just remembering it made Emma feel horrible all over again. What _was_ wrong with her?

"I said no thanks, Bronwyn," Emma answered, trying to be patient, and Bronwyn shrugged and went back to join the other kids. Emma couldn't understand how Miss Peregrine never lost her patience with all of them, but she never did.

Emma's thoughts settled on Miss Peregrine as she wandered into the orchard behind the garden, weaving in and out between the sweet-smelling apple trees. There in the dappled light, it occurred to her – she couldn't be the only one who got so sick of this loop that she wanted to scream, who felt so lonely that she wanted to cry. Miss Peregrine must feel that way too, sometimes. She _must_. For bird's sake, she was the only adult stuck in a house with eleven peculiar children. Emma decided to ask her, the next time that they were alone.

"Do you ever get lonely, Miss P?"

But it was always hard to get a moment alone with Miss Peregrine, so Emma had to wait almost a week for a chance to ask her question. It gave her time to imagine what Miss Peregrine's reaction might be. Perhaps her hands would still from whatever they were doing – for Miss Peregrine was always busy doing something for her children – as she considered how to answer. Or perhaps if she were smoking her pipe, she would take a puff from it and tilt her head in that thoughtful way she had. Whatever she was doing, she would, Emma felt sure, be impressed that Emma, out of all her children, was the only one perceptive enough to realize that _yes_ , she did get lonely sometimes, and she would be grateful to finally admit it, and she would be touched that Emma was concerned enough to ask. Perhaps it would change things between them, and Miss Peregrine would finally stop treating her like one of the little kids.

But then, when Emma finally did ask the question, one night after the reset when the younger children were in bed, it didn't go at all like she'd expected.

"Do you ever get lonely, Miss P?"

Miss Peregrine looked at her and smiled, but it was completely the _wrong_ smile. It wasn't impressed or surprised. No, it was that indulgent smile that she gave the little kids whenever they asked her some silly question. Emma burned with embarrassment to have Miss Peregrine now directing it at _her_.

"Emma," she answered softly, her black eyes shining, "what a question to ask a woman who has eleven children."

Emma wanted to say more, to clarify that Miss Peregrine had to be lonely for another _adult,_ for someone she didn't have to take care of. But she could only stand there with her mouth open a bit, grasping for words that never came. And even if she could find a way to explain her question, she knew now what Miss Peregrine's answer would be. She had always loved Miss Peregrine like her own mother, but in that moment, she hated her.

Emma swallowed hard, and without another word, she turned and hurried upstairs to the library, so quickly that her blonde hair bounced with every step. She wanted to find _Florida_ on a map, to put her finger on the faraway spot where Abe was, but instead, she found Olive, in an armchair near the library fireplace, reading before she went to bed. Emma stood in the doorway for a moment and watched her. She thought that anyone who didn't know their household well would assume that she and Olive were best friends. Not only were they both sixteen, but they were the only two teenage girls in Miss Peregrine's home. Their shared placement on that high, lonely shelf of permanent adolescence should've pushed them together into a close friendship.

But that hadn't happened. Emma liked Olive, of course, but the two girls had never been especially close. Their personalities were more different than their ages were alike. Olive was as relentlessly cheerful as a sunbeam, never passing through stormy moods like Emma and Enoch did. Even as she sat reading now, there was a little smile on her face, as if smiling were her default expression. Emma didn't really want to ask her the question, but asking Miss Peregrine had gone all wrong, and who else did she have to talk to?

Emma took a deep breath. "Olive?" she asked, and the other girl looked up from her book. "Do you... do you think Miss P ever gets lonely?"

But Olive shook her head. "No, Miss P's an ymbryne," she said simply.

"So?"

Olive pursed her lips, thinking. "Well... ymbrynes are different, aren't they? I don't think they're wired that way. All Miss P cares about is us."

Emma nodded vaguely. It did make sense; ymbrynes were mysterious creatures, but Emma knew that they were bred for one purpose – to take care of peculiar children – and Miss Peregrine was no exception. Emma suddenly wished that she could be wired like Miss Peregrine, or cheerful like Olive, or young forever, as young as Bronwyn and the other little kids, finding joy in a block of ice and everything else. She sighed so hard that she almost put the whole fireplace out.

Before she went to bed that night, Emma put Abe's letter away in her underwear drawer. Her underclothes were all neatly folded, and as she slid Abe's letter beneath them, she thought how strange it was, the things that you missed when you lived in a time-loop. Sometimes Emma even missed her period. She'd gotten her period for four years before Miss Peregrine made the loop and froze time in place, and she could only vaguely remember now how it felt – the heaviness in her breasts, the cramps across her lower back. It had always been such an inconvenience to her... so why did she miss it now?

 _"What's wrong with Emma, Miss P?"_ Claire had asked weeks ago, after Emma snapped at her, and Miss P had answered, _"She's just having a good wallow, Claire, leave her be."_ Maybe that's all this was, another good wallow, and she hoped that everything would seem better in the morning. A new day in the loop could often have that effect on her, and she would wake up feeling happier, less lonely. But as she fell asleep, she still heard Claire's question echoing in her hears.


	11. A Peculiar Christmas

I don't celebrate Christmas, but I realized that I've never written the holiday for Miss Peregrine and her kids, so I figured it was high time. This is my entry for the Writers Anonymous Holiday Challenge and the Caesar's Palace Winter Self-Care Challenge. Partially inspired by the children's book _Winter is the Warmest Season,_ by Lauren Stringer.

* * *

Bits of ribbon and wrapping paper lay scattered across the carpet, along with a few pine needles that had fallen from the Christmas tree. A card from Abe in Florida sat on the mantle, showing Santa Claus stringing lights around a palm tree on a beach – _Did you all know S_ _anta_ _summers in F_ _lorida_ _? I bumped into him here, and it turns out, he's peculiar, too!_ – and the Christmas record spun on the record-player in the corner, currently on a choir singing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."

Miss Peregrine and her children had woken up early and spent the morning unwrapping Christmas gifts from each other. Now, they were sprawled across the sofas and floor in the parlor, playing with new toys, flipping through new books, comparing presents, and winding down from all the excitement. Enoch had used his peculiarity to bring to life a set of nutcracker soldiers, and they were marching around the base of the tree, climbing up and down the little mountain of blocks that the twins had built.

"I think that's their favorite part of Christmas," Emma said, laughing a little, as she watched the twins watch the nutcrackers, "building things for those nutcrackers to climb over."

"This is _my_ favorite part," Fiona said, stroking a branch of the Christmas tree with one hand, "growing the tree every year."

"It's a great tree, Fiona," Hugh complimented her, and she blushed with pride. "I think it's one of the best you've ever done." Fiona had grown the tree a few weeks ago, Bronwyn had carried it inside, and they'd all decorated it with paper chains and the shining ornaments that stayed in a box for the rest of the year, with Emma floating up to the ceiling to put the tinsel star on top. Miss Peregrine's children had gotten very good at putting on Christmas over the years. It felt so festive inside that they almost forgot that outside, it wasn't snowing, or even cold, but another warm, sunny September day.

Then Olive sighed, staring into the fire from where she sat on the sofa, and though the other children didn't notice, Miss Peregrine had very sharp senses when it came to her brood, and her ears, of course, picked up on it.

"Olive, whatever's the matter?" she asked.

"Oh, it's nothing, Miss P," Olive said softly. "I was just thinking about winter. I miss it, sometimes."

"What, winter?" Hugh scoffed. "Why would you miss being cold?"

"There's more to winter than just being cold."

"Like what?" Claire asked from the floor, where she and Bronwyn were playing with their new dolls. Claire had lived in September for so long that she couldn't remember any winters at all.

"Well, you see," Olive began, in her storytelling voice, "when it's cold outside, everybody does warm things to make up for it." Olive was good at telling stories, and soon, the younger children were all gathered around her, listening to her describe warm woolen mittens and long flannel pajamas, steaming bowls of soup and grilled cheese sandwiches toasted over the stove, family and friends snuggled close together. But the _best_ thing about winter, Olive said, was all the fire. There were candles burning on windowsills, street-lamps glowing on corners, and fires blazing in hearths. Everyone simply _loved_ a good fire in winter. Olive fell silent for a moment, remembering. That, she supposed, was why she'd always loved winter so much. Until she'd arrived at Miss Peregrine's house, winter was the only time when her peculiarity for fire felt like a gift, instead of a curse.

Winter sounded exotic to children who lived in an eternal September, and Claire closed her eyes, trying to imagine looking out at snowfall through a frosty windowpane. Suddenly, she had a very clever idea. She put on her best _Please, M_ _iss P?_ face and turned to her ymbryne. "Miss P," she asked, "couldn't you find a boy or girl with the peculiarity of controlling the weather, and bring them to live here?"

"Ooh, yes, could you, Miss P?" Millard asked. "Then we could have snow at Christmas, or whenever we wanted."

Miss Peregrine smiled – this wasn't an uncommon request from her brood – but said firmly, "Taking in another peculiar child is a big responsibility for me. I can't do it just because you want snow to play in." The children looked glum, and Miss Peregrine hesitated, weighing the possible danger, before she added, "But I suppose if you're really in the mood for cold weather, we could all step outside the loop for a little while."

 _This_ got their attention. They all gasped and grinned at each other and broke into excited cheers.

"A trip outside the loop! Hurrah!"

"I haven't been outside the loop for ages and _ages_."

"Really?" Enoch asked Miss Peregrine, looking not a little skeptical. Their ymbryne didn't often allow trips outside the loop.

"Really," she answered, lighting her pipe. "It's Christmas outside the loop, too, after all, and Christmas comes but once every twelve Septembers. We'll go this afternoon, but not for too long, mind."

Olive's face broke into a grin, more excited than anyone else as she gathered up the new knitting needles and skeins of yarn that she'd gotten for Christmas. "I'm going to knit us all matching hats!" she exclaimed, flailing her arms a bit.

Enoch groaned at this. "Olive, I don't—"

"With little matching pom-poms!"

* * *

Miss Peregrine said that they couldn't leave the loop unless they were dressed properly, so while Olive knitted, the rest of them rummaged deep into closets and trunks. They emerged with winter clothes that hadn't seen the light of day in years — coats and scarves and gloves that they awkwardly pulled on. A few of the children grew silent and somber as they did so, for it brought back memories of the last times that they had worn cold-weather clothes, before they had come to live in Miss Peregrine's house. Claire was the only one of her children who didn't have unhappy memories of her old life, and that was only because she'd been with Miss Peregrine since she was a baby.

"I... I think maybe I'd better not go," Fiona said nervously to Olive, her hands shaking as she tried to pull on a pair of gloves. "I never did like winter. Hardly any plants grow."

They were in Olive and Emma's room, where Olive was working on her hats, but as Fiona spoke, Miss Peregrine appeared in the doorway. She had some trick of knowing whenever she was needed, and now, she laid one hand over Fiona's until it stopped shaking.

"Fiona, you don't have to go if you don't want to," she said quietly, "but I promise, when you get back, your garden and all your plants will still be here, just as you left them." Fiona nodded, looking reassured.

"I guess you wouldn't like winter so much with your peculiarity," Olive said, turning one hat inside out to study the stitches. "But with mine..." She hesitated, then blurted out what she'd been thinking earlier. "Well, winter used to be the only time anyone wanted me around."

"We all want you here, Olive," Miss Peregrine said. "Everyone in this house does." She had said this before; in fact, she made sure that whenever a new peculiar child came into her care, it was one of the first things they heard from her. Some ymbrynes took in children with an air of reluctance, but Miss Peregrine always said, _We're very glad to have you._ For some of them, it was the first time they'd ever felt wanted.

"We do!" Fiona agreed, "and it's not just because of your peculiarity, either."

Olive knitted as fast as could, but even she couldn't finish matching hats for all her housemates in a few hours. She finished three — for Claire, Bronwyn, and Fiona ("because they're the youngest, so they have the smallest heads," she explained) — and stood back and exclaimed, "Oh, don't they look cute!" after they'd put them on. Emma even got out the camera and took a photograph to mail to Abe.

Their walk to the loop entrance was sweaty and uncomfortable, with all of them wearing heavy winter clothes in the late summer afternoon. In the meadow near their house, Fiona had grown topiary bushes shaped like snowmen, and the other children had decorated them just as they had seen real snowmen in picture-books, with coal eyes and carrot noses. Bronwyn shivered with excitement as they walked past them. Perhaps outside the loop, there would be enough snow to build _real_ snowmen. When they reached the cave where the loop entrance was hidden, she was still excited, but a little scared, too.

The children stepped through the loop entrance a bit timidly — blinking and looking this way and that, for it was startling to go straight from September into winter. The weather outside their loop was very cold, and the sky above was gray and overcast. It was a dreary winter day, but to Miss Peregrine's children, it seemed strange and full of wonder. They slowly explored out further from the cave as their timidity melted away.

No snow was falling, but there was a thin layer on the ground, just enough to crush underfoot when they stepped on it. Claire gasped the first time she heard the crunching sound beneath her boots, and after each step, she twisted around to look at her footprints in the snow behind her. Their breaths came out in frosted little puffs. Hugh said that he felt like a smoke-breathing dragon, and Millard cried, "Look, you can even see my breath!" They took turns writing their names with twigs in a smooth patch of snow, and then they scooped up enough to throw some small snowballs at each other, ducking and shrieking with laughter.

"If only we could get some snow back home without it melting," Emma said, packing a snowball to throw at Horace, "then we could make it into candy, like Laura Ingalls did."

Miss Peregrine smiled they played, but she kept her gaze on the trees and boulders beyond the field, her sharp eyes peeled for the first sign of anything amiss. She held her pocketwatch in one hand, always aware of the dangers that would befall them if too many minutes ticked away outside their loop.

The cold air bit at their faces and made their cheeks glow pink, and when they began to turn from pink to red, Miss Peregrine announced that it was time to go home. The younger children gave a chorus of _awww_ 's, but they didn't protest or try to bargain for more time — they knew it was useless with their ymbryne. Besides, it was fun to run out of the cold, dark winter day back into the warm September sunshine.

"Hullo, loop!" Claire cheered, as she ran back out of the cave. "We're back again! Did you miss us? Miss P, can we do this again next Christmas?"

Bronwyn rubbed one hand over her mouth, frowned, and slipped closer to Miss Peregrine. "Miss P? Why do my lips feel all funny?"

"They're chapped from the cold," Miss Peregrine said. She took Bronwyn's hand in hers, a bit distracted as she counted heads to make sure all her children had returned to the loop safely. "We'll put some vaseline on them when we get home."

"Your lips always would get chapped in winter," Horace said, touching his mouth, too. "Would you know, I'd forgotten that."

"I always hated winter," Fiona said, "but I guess it's not all bad." She started to brush off some snow that had landed on her hat and her braids, but Olive rushed over and stopped her.

"Don't! Don't brush it off — here, I want to hold on to it, just for a little longer." Olive delicately brushed the snowflakes off Fiona into the thick leather gloves that she always wore. "It's the last of winter I'll see for a long time," she added sadly, "so I've got to make it count." Her hands that usually kindled flames so easily now cupped the snow as if it were the most precious thing in the world, until it melted and was gone.


	12. Homecoming

The first chapter in this story to prominently feature Abe Portman. Since we only see him as an old man in the movie, it was challenging to write him at a younger age. The next chapter will focus on Miss Peregrine's first days with her first charge, which she talks about briefly here.

* * *

Abe reached Cairnholm by ferry in the late afternoon, but he didn't set out for Miss Peregrine's house until well after nightfall. He had dinner in the pub, chatting with locals and drinking a beer to pass the time, and forced himself to wait, despite how desperate he was to talk to Miss Peregrine. Visiting her under the cover of darkness would be safer — and more convenient for him, too. He needed to speak to her alone, so he waited until late enough that all her children would be asleep — he remembered her household schedule very well, and it hadn't changed, of course — then, as quietly as he could, checking to make sure he wasn't followed, he began the walk to her loop.

The island was very dark at night, but there was a full moon out, casting enough light for Abe to see by. He looked at the moon as he walked and thought about how astronauts were working to travel there in just a few years, to actually get out of their space shuttle and walk on it. He imagined telling that to Miss Peregrine's children; she would never allow him to talk about the future to them, of course, but he tried to imagine the looks of wonder on their faces. Now that Abe had grown up, it was strange to see them — those eternal children who had once been his playmates, and Emma, who had once been his sweetheart. The older he got, the more he was torn between feeling sorry for them and feeling jealous of them.

The older he got, the more he felt torn between the peculiar world and the ordinary one, and that feeling that grown even worse since he'd gotten the news.

Inside the loop, he paused, as he always did, when he turned the corner in the path, and Miss Peregrine's house came into view. Abe knew that no matter how far he traveled, no matter how much he saw, nothing would ever affect him like the sight of this house. Even by moonlight, it was impressive — the red gables over the windows, the stained-glass panels in the front doors, the flowering ivy that climbed the walls, the topiary bushes on the lawn. The first time Abe had seen it, when Miss Peregrine brought him here from that miserable refugee camp years ago, he actually broke down crying.

He had almost reached the house when, from out of nowhere, a falcon suddenly swooped low over his head. Abe startled and swore in Polish, and then Miss Peregrine was there, in her human form, beside him. "Miss P, don't scare me like that."

"Well, you gave me quite a scare too, Abe, showing up here at this hour," she answered, smoothing down a few strands of her windblown black hair. She must have been out on one of those late-night flights she liked to take sometimes. "At first I thought another loop had been raided, but you weren't walking fast enough."

"No, no, it's nothing like that. It's... well, can we go inside?"

"Of course. I'll brew us some tea." As they went up the front steps, she smiled warmly at him and squeezed his arm. "It is good to see you again, Abe, even at this hour."

The kitchen was bright and warm, and while Miss Peregrine put the tea kettle on, Abe took a deep breath and told her the news that had brought him back to this island. "My wife's going to have a baby."

Miss Peregrine turned around from the stove with a smile on her face, but before she could say anything, Abe went on.

"I-I don't think I'm ready for this," he blurted out. "I know I'm supposed to be happy, but I'm so afraid I'm going to mess this up." He had been sitting at the kitchen table, but now, he got up and began to pace the room, wringing his hands. "And I keep worrying, what if the baby's peculiar? What _then_? But... but what if it's _not_? I don't even know which would be worse. I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm going to mess this up, I just—"

"Now, Abe, stop it," Miss Peregrine interrupted. She was chiding him in that same voice she used with the little kids, but he didn't mind; it actually made him feel better. "You're as bad as the children, getting yourself worked up like this. Sit down and have some tea."

"Yes, Miss P," he answered automatically, sitting down again. The old phrase, some of the first words he'd ever learned in English, sprang to his lips as if he'd never left this loop. Miss Peregrine had drilled those words into him, and all her children, as what they were to say whenever she told them to do anything.

Miss Peregrine fetched two teacups from the cabinet and poured tea for both of them while she went on in her smoothest voice. "Of course becoming a parent for the first time is very overwhelming. I think every mother and father fears that they won't do it properly, that they'll fail in some way. What you're feeling is perfectly natural, Abe. It's part of the experience, I'm sure."

Abe smirked behind his teacup; how ironic to hear this coming from an ymbryne. Ymbrynes, he knew, had special instincts in caring for children, at least for peculiar ones. That was how Miss Peregrine always made it look so easy. He leaned back in his chair and studied her across the table. He'd always loved Miss Peregrine, of course, but he respected her more now that he was about her age — though he'd never ask her age, because she had taught him better manners than that — and could appreciate how much she did for her children.

"And what about you, Miss P?" he asked, suddenly curious. "Did you ever have a baby?"

Miss Peregrine sighed and stirred her tea, looking wistful. "Mm-hm, I got Claire when she was a baby. She was still a newborn, practically. She was my first charge, did you know that?"

Abe shook his head. "I'll bet _you_ were never this nervous."

She chuckled a bit. "Oh no, I had the opposite problem, which is much worse. I thought I would always do everything perfectly and never make any mistakes. But then, when I actually got Claire..." She hesitated. It would be too awkward to tell Abe what had actually happened. "Well, things didn't go _at all_ like I'd expected. It took some time before she warmed up to me."

Abe had been skeptic before, but at this, he couldn't help scoffing. "With _Claire_? But she thinks you hung the moon in the sky."

Miss Peregrine smiled. "Well, perhaps she does now. She came around to me eventually, thank the birds, but it was... difficult while it lasted. My point is," she went on, her voice firm again, "that there are always bumps in the road when it comes to caring for children. I went into it with far too much confidence and had to learn that the hard way."

Abe nodded at this, and she could tell that he was reassured, but his eyelids were dropping over his tea, and Miss Peregrine almost smirked. He was nearly as obvious as Claire, who would protest that she wasn't a bit sleepy around a huge yawn as Miss Peregrine carried her upstairs to bed. "Abe, how long have you been awake?" she asked him.

Abe blinked several times, then shrugged. It had been a very long trip from Florida to Wales.

"Well, no wonder you're worrying yourself into a fret. You should get some rest, as long as you're here, and your old room is still vacant. Come along."

"Yes, Miss P," he answered again, before he could stop himself. He hadn't planned on it, but the idea of spending the night in this house again was too tempting. Waking up in this loop wasn't like waking up anywhere else. "I mean, if you're sure it's no trouble."

"Of course not. I told you when you left for the army that you would always have a home here, and I meant that."

"My wife doesn't know I'm peculiar, you know," Abe said softly, as he finished his tea and got up from the table, swaying on his feet a bit. "She doesn't even know what I really am. I'm lying to her." His wife believed that Abe was away on a business trip right now, not that he'd run back to Wales, to the closest thing he had left to a parent, because the idea of becoming a father had terrified him.

But feeling sorry for oneself was right next to tardiness on the list of things that Miss Peregrine had no patience for. "You're keeping her safe, Abe. Your peculiarity doesn't affect your everyday life, and wallowing about it won't do any good, now will it?"

Everyone else in the house was sleeping, so they crept upstairs quietly, and as Abe climbed the stairs, he woke up enough to tease Miss Peregrine. "It's nice of you to leave my old room vacant, Miss P, but you don't have to do it for _my_ sake, you know. When are you going to take in a new peculiar child?" He smiled as he said it, for he knew how often she heard this request from her children.

"Oh, stop it, as if I don't have my hands full enough already. Ah, here we are."

Abe paused in the doorway of his old bedroom. The view out the window was exactly the same, of course, and as beautiful as ever. So many evenings he'd sat on that windowsill, staring up at the stars or down across the garden to the sea. Everything in the room was exactly the same – except him. Could he still fit on that windowsill if he tried it now?

Miss Peregrine squeezed his arm. "I think you'll be a good father, Abe," she said softly, "even if you don't think so yourself yet. Mazel tov."

 _Mazel tov._ That stopped him. He couldn't even remember when he'd last heard those words. They made him think of his parents, and he realized, for really the first time, that his baby would be his parents' grandchild. It seemed so obvious yet so impossible at the same time.

He almost never spoke of his early years with his family in Poland, not even with those closest to him. Abe was older now than his parents had been when they were killed by the Nazis, along with Bubbe and Zaidy and nearly every Jew in the village. His parents, against all odds, had gotten him safely away to England, where he'd not only survived but gotten to live very comfortably in Miss Peregrine's fine house.

As Abe laid down, he closed his eyes and forced himself to remember the last time he ever saw them – his mama kissing his face, the tears in her eyes as she wrenched her hand from his and pushed him aboard the loud, scary black train of the _kindertransport_. At the time, he had been angry at her for sending him away, but now, he couldn't imagine the sheer force of love that it must have taken for her to do that. His parents had loved him. There was more to their legacy than was just tragedy. That, Abe decided as he fell asleep, would be the legacy that he would pass down to his child.


	13. New Arrivals

This was initially going to be flashback set during the previous chapter, when Miss Peregrine tells Abe that when she first got Claire, "things didn't go at all like I'd expected." But I wanted to spend more time on it than a flashback would allow, so I made it into its own chapter. It's inspired by a similar scene in _The Light Between Oceans,_ one of my favorite books of 2017.

* * *

Alma lit her pipe and sat down to enjoy a rare moment of quiet in her kitchen, before her children came in for their afternoon tea. They were outside on the lawn right now, playing tug-of-war with Bronwyn at one end of the rope and the rest of them at the other. They never beat Bronwyn, even when they all played against her, but sometimes they came close.

A card from Abe had arrived that morning, and at the kitchen table, Alma picked it up again. It was a birth announcement, with a drawing on the front of a stork carrying a pink bundle in its beak. Inside were lines where Abe had filled out his new daughter's name – _Susan Louise Portman,_ though he'd written off to the side, _We're calling her Susie_ – her weight and date of birth. There was a black-and-white photograph too, of Abe and his wife holding the baby.

Alma and her children had all passed it around and looked at it that morning. The children were mostly happy for their former housemate – except Emma, who Alma knew felt stung, though she'd tried to hide it – but for her, it was a very strange feeling, and she still didn't know quite what to make of it. None of her children had ever grown to adulthood before, much less had a child of their own. She couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that she had failed Abe somehow, letting him grow up like this.

"Miss P?" Claire's voice called, distracting her, and then the screen door swung open, and Claire came skipping inside. "I picked some cherries from the orchard, Miss P, see?" she asked, holding up a basket. "Can we have them with our tea? We should have something _pink,_ because Abe's baby is a girl."

Alma smiled. Claire was as girly as little girls came; everything in her wardrobe was pink or ruffled or both, and she always wanted to play dress-up or tea party. "All right, Claire. Why don't you take them to the sink and wash them off?"

Claire slid the stepstool over to the sink, climbed up, and remembered to wash her hands first. She loved to help in the kitchen, and for a six-year-old, she was good at it. Alma let her make the food for teatime on her own sometimes, with supervision, of course. Once she'd used a cookie-cutter to make them all heart-shaped sandwiches with strawberry jam.

"Abe's baby is awfully small," Claire remarked as she turned on the tap. "Was I that small when I was a baby, Miss P?"

"You were just about the same size," Alma said, looking at the photograph again. She'd have to remember to put it in their album later. Her littlest children had loved the stork drawing; they really believed that a stork brought new babies, and that the stork was an ymbryne.

"Is she going to get bigger, or just be a baby forever?" Claire was her question-asker, but Alma didn't mind; she was young enough that she still asked easy questions and was satisfied with easy answers.

"No, she'll get bigger. She's not peculiar, so she should grow up all the way."

"But... how do you know she's not peculiar? Maybe she has a peculiarity we can't see, like with Enoch."

"An ymbryne can always tell."

Claire looked over the shoulder to see the photograph on the table. Abe, his wife, their new baby. Father, mother, child. Just like the doll family in Claire's dollhouse upstairs. Just like the families she saw when Miss P took them into the village. Her little hands stilled from washing the cherries, and for the first time in her life, it occurred to her to wonder...

"Miss P, why don't I have a mother? Or a father?"

The question made Alma nervous, but she didn't betray that. "Because you're peculiar, Claire," she answered calmly, "and peculiar children don't have mothers or fathers, remember? They have ymbrynes."

"Oh, yes, I knew that," Claire said quickly, as if she'd just forgotten. "Well, a mother couldn't be as good as _you,_ anyway."

Alma let out a long, slow exhale of her pipe and fell silent for a moment. In her mind, she heard again Claire's wails in the middle of the night; every night for those first few sleep-deprived weeks, she would wake up for a feeding and would only cry harder, inconsolable, when Alma came to her instead of her mother.

"Your mother would be just as good to you, Claire, if you had one," she said in the same calm tone, though a bit quieter now. _You had one_ _once,_ she thought. _She loved you. You missed her._ But of course, she said nothing of that to Claire. Out of all her children, Claire was the only one who wasn't troubled by her past, and Alma intended to keep it that way.

Claire had been abandoned in Telford when she was about three months old. She was left wrapped in a blanket on the steps of a church, and found there by another ymbryne, Miss Nightingale, who'd sensed that there was a peculiar child in the area and had been searching for her. She was placed in Alma's care that very same day.

Alma remembered the first time she held Claire in her arms as if it were yesterday. She was fast asleep, and as Alma gazed at her, she felt everything else grow still, as if the world had stopped spinning and shrunken down to just her and this child. She almost couldn't believe it – her first charge at last, and it was a _baby_. She was getting in right on the ground floor. Soon enough, she would have other charges, older children with unhappy pasts that she wouldn't be able to change or fix. But this one, this little one in her arms right now, would be different. _Never mind that her mother abandoned her,_ Alma thought scornfully. Claire would never know that; she would only know love and acceptance and stability. She would never want for anything. Alma would see to it.

She was convinced that she would be the perfect ymbryne, that she would never make any mistakes – not with this baby, or any of the children to come. Of course, it all seemed easy with Claire asleep in her arms like a perfect angel. But then, she woke up, crying to be fed, and Alma's daydream crumpled.

She prepared a bottle of formula for Claire, but when she offered it to her, Claire only cried harder and turned her face away. She'd felt Alma's breast on her cheek, and she nuzzled it with her mouth through her blouse, wanting to nurse. Claire was a stubborn baby, and the two of them went on like that for some time, Claire trying to breastfeed and Alma trying to give her the bottle. She realized only then that Claire had probably never had a bottle before. She realized that she wasn't perfect, after all. _Far from it,_ she scolded herself. Hadn't she just sworn that Claire would never want for anything? And now, here she was, wanting already.

Alma's scorn for Claire's mother vanished in a wave of pity. Her mother had given her life and breastfed her – two things that Alma could never do, even if she cared for this child for a hundred years. She'd probably only given Claire up when her peculiarity became too hard to hide anymore. The poor woman... Alma wondered if she was sore right now from not having a baby to nurse. She vowed to never judge her children's birth families so harshly again.

Finally, with the baby still crying and Alma feeling frustrated almost to tears herself, not knowing what else to do, she unbuttoned her blouse and held Claire to her bare breast, which she immediately took. Her hungry sucking motions slowed, but didn't stop, when no milk came, and she opened her eyes and focused for the first time on Alma's face.

She was only a few months old, but Alma swore that she could see an understanding in Claire's gaze as she stared up at her, as if she realized that the mother who'd nursed her was gone, that her life would be different now, and that she'd have to accept this strange new woman and her strange bottle. She finally took the bottle after that, but only with a great reluctance.

Alma heaved a sigh of relief and thought that battle was over, but no, she had to go through it all again, almost every time she fed Claire. For their first few days together, she kept refusing to take her bottle until she'd had Alma's breast first. It seemed to soothe her, even though there was no nourishment to be found there, so Alma put her own discomfort aside and remembered the words that had been drilled into her at the Ymbryne Academy. _"It is an ymbryne's greatest privilege to make sacrifices for her children."_ She thanked the birds when Claire finally outgrew the habit, and that she didn't start eating through her backmouth until she was old enough for solid foods.

Claire set the cherries to dry on a dish towel and came over to the table, bringing Alma back to the present. She tilted the card up to look at the stork drawing. "I wish Miss Stork would bring _us_ a new one, too," she said.

"Mmm, I know," Alma demurred. Her children were always wishing for a new brother or sister to play with. Alma knew that she had quite enough children to look after already, but she also knew that if the Ymbryne Council ever asked her to take in another peculiar boy or girl who needed a good home, she wouldn't find it in her heart to say no.

"Well, I'd better get back to tug-of-war," Claire said, turning her head to look through the window onto the lawn. "I'm sure the others need my help. How much longer till our tea, Miss P?"

"Seventeen minutes. I'm about to put the kettle on now." She got up and watched through the window above the sink as Claire ran outside and across the lawn, her pink dress swaying. Alma suddenly remembered that when Miss Nightingale had first found Claire, she had been wrapped in a pink blanket – a bit faded, but most definitely _pink,_ as if her mother already knew how girly she was. Perhaps mothers had instincts too, like ymbrynes did. As she watched Claire play, Alma said a silent prayer that her mother could sense in her heart that her daughter was being very well-cared for. Alma had learned that she wasn't perfect, but she knew that she was doing that much right.


End file.
